Forbidden Love
by ezridax19
Summary: Lancelot loves Guinevere but cannot bear seeing her with Arthur any longer. Lancelot struggles with his feelings, and Guinevere struggles with her duty. Will fate keep them apart forever? LancelotGuinevere, ArthurGuinevere Chapter 7 online!
1. The Wicked Woods

**Title: **Forbidden Love

**Summary: **Lancelot loves Guinevere but cannot bear seeing her with Arthur any longer.

**Pairing:** Lancelot/Guinevere, Arthur/Guinevere

**Rating:** NC-17 (for later chapters)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own the characters, I just have fun with them.

**A/N:** My first King Arthur fic! AU - Lancelot survives the battle of Badon Hill.

* * *

**Chapter 1 – The Wicked Woods**

Warm sun radiated down on Lancelot's mop of unruly black curls. With the beautiful weather as an excuse, he left the castle to meander through the woods. He needed to get away, for the constant sight of them together all the time, smiling and laughing, was weighing down upon him. He was too well versed in the art of wallowing in his misery, and the calm of the forest did nothing to temper his thoughts. Thoughts of her, always of her. The Woad who had captured his heart. The cruel fate of his dreams, and the tragic destiny of his reality.

Lancelot heard them before he saw them. Soft cries that quickly increased in pitch. He recognized well the sound of love-making. A twinge of anguish marred his soulful eyes and he envied the unseen pair and their public lust. For months, he and Guinevere had been meeting in secret, late at night when the whole world was asleep. They would whisper to each other in the black of night, forbidden words that could not be said in the light of day. When only the moon and the stars lit the sky, she was his and his alone. Yet when the sun rose, she would always leave him and return to Arthur, and he would pass another day in constant longing for twilight. Part of him was plagued with guilt for betraying his best friend, but his heart and soul were drawn to her, like a moth to flame. He hated the unseen couple, for never could he and Guinevere be allowed the pleasure of such a reckless encounter out in the open. With a sigh, he continued walking quietly along the forest path not wanting to disturb the blissful couple.

"Oh, Arthur."

Stopping stone cold dead in his tracks, he felt his stomach turn to ice at the recognition of her voice. _Guinevere._ As if some hidden force pushed him, he strode quickly in the direction of her cries. He came upon them in a thickly wooded grove and silently moved behind the shelter of a nearby tree to avoid detection. The knight's dark eyes were transfixed on the scene before him, a scene that made him wish for blindness.

Gleaming in the sunlight, Guinevere's naked body straddled Arthur's, desire radiating from her face as she undulated atop him. Her raven hair cascading down her back, she was the most beautiful creature Lancelot had ever laid eyes on. And she was making love to his best friend in the world, his brother in arms, his dearest and most beloved Arthur. Were it any other man, Lancelot would have instantly drawn his blades and thoroughly relished in severing the man's head from his body. But it wasn't just any man she was making love to, it was Arthur, which only made Lancelot's heart ache all the more. How could he begrudge Arthur his love for her? She was no mere woman, but a goddess worthy of any man's worship.

Lancelot was mesmerized, unable to move, unable to look away. He watched with hidden eyes as her slight body writhed above Arthur's muscular frame. Arthur grabbed her buttocks and pushed her harder and faster into him, his eyes enraptured with her. Guinevere let out a loud moan, her eyes closed tight, savoring the feel of him inside her. They moved together as one, panting and moaning in unison.

A war raged inside the fearless knight, worse than the battle at Badon Hill. His heart burned with jealous rage. The bitter taste stung in his mouth as the bile reached the back of his throat, his stomach somersaulting. At the same time he felt his pants tighten as his body reacted to the sights and sounds before him. He cursed his manhood, cursed himself, and cursed her for staking a knife into his heart. This pain was far worse than the Saxon arrow that had almost taken his life, yet he could not look away.

Their rhythm became faster and most desperate and by Guinevere's cries he knew she was close. With one final guttural moan they both came, and Arthur slowly pulled her down atop him for a soft kiss. She smiled, kissing his forehead and laid down beside him captured in his strong arms.

Lancelot was thoroughly disgusted - with Guinevere and the sight before him, with himself for becoming aroused at the sight of them, and with his all-consuming love that burned his very soul. A love he could not have yet could not end. As long as he drew breath into his lungs, he would love her. Whether she loved him in return did not matter, for she was Arthur's and would only be Lancelot's alone in his dreams. Arthur would have her and love her until his dying days. And all Lancelot was left with was this nightmare of a life and undying love for a woman who would never be his. He turned and started making his way back to the castle. Despite the warmth the fine spring day afforded, he was numb to the bone, and a fog settled over his heart and his thoughts as he traipsed back through the forest to the castle.

* * *

Lancelot stared into the fire, his heart burning fiercer than the heat of the flame. She was late. He had been waiting for over an hour for her to arrive. Every evening for the past two months they would meet here, in secret. He had stumbled across this place one day shortly after his recovery from the battle. Deep in the quiet of the forest he had found a glorious waterfall concealing a small cave, just roomy enough for two people to occupy. The instant he saw this location, he knew he had to bring her here. He had not been in search of a secret place of their own, yet he had found it nonetheless. Just as he had not been in search of love, yet Cupid's arrow had struck him all the same. 

Closing his eyes, the sound of the falling water brought back memories of the first night he had brought her here.

_Her eyes sparkled at the majestic beauty as he led her to the streaming water. A surprised smile crossed her lips when he pulled her into the hidden cave, for the water obscured it from anyone save those with a keenly discerning eye._

"It's perfect." She breathed.

_"So are you." He replied._

_He quickly lit a fire and pulled her down onto the blanket he had stowed in his pack. The light from the fire danced over her hair and eyes, and he thanked the gods for sending this goddess down from heaven. They made love for the first time that night, fierce and passionate as they both poured out all of the want and desire they had both been holding in for so long. _

His pleasant thoughts from that night quickly turned dim, as the pleasurable images in mind were replaced with appalling ones of what he had witnessed earlier. A shadow passed over his eyes and his heart, as he replayed the entire odious scene in his mind. With each minute that passed his fury grew. He was just about to get up and leave, go into the surrounding green and kill something, or perhaps someone, when she finally arrived.

* * *

"I am so sorry I am late, I …" 

He remained seated as she entered the cave, his eyes never leaving the fire as he addressed her with a venomous tone.

"Wicked woman."

Guinevere jumped at the sound of his voice. The smile that was slowly forming on her face quickly faded from his tone and his refusal to even glance at her.

"Is everything alright?" She asked standing on the other side of the small fire, concern dancing across her countenance.

"Where have you been?" He continued to stare downward, flames dancing around his pupils.

"I fell asleep. I must have been more tired than I realized." She could not fathom why her tardiness would anger him so.

"Tired." He snorted. "And what pray tell tired you so, my lady?" His eyes finally rose to meet hers, defying her to answer him.

"I was out for a walk earlier and ..." She replied softly.

"Aye, a simple stroll in the forest." He retorted with daggers in his gaze.

His black eyes pierced her soul and she realized. _He knows the truth. _Of course he knew, he always did. They were connected, attached, like the stars were fixed to the sky. He thought her thoughts, breathed her breath, held her heart, and shared her soul.

Standing up finally as if to prove his point, he yelled at her. "Do not deny it my lady for I saw you! I saw you with him. Saw you reveling in his touch, heard you calling his name." He was enraged and made no effort to conceal his anger.

_Curse the gods, he has seen us. _Blood rose to her cheeks at her indiscretion. She traced every etch of pain on her lovers face, pain she had caused.

"Fair lady, if you have aimed to destroy me, I congratulate you, for you have succeeded beyond measure."

"Lancelot, you know I must marry Arthur and you know well my reasons. It should not shock or surprise you to learn that we are intimate, he and I. I am to be his wife in not one month's time." She tried reasoning with him, but he would have none of it.

"Guinevere, it is one thing to_ know_ you are with Arthur, and quite another to _see it_ with my very own eyes."

His eyes captured hers and for what seemed an eternity he stared into the gateway of her heart. Words were meaningless and could not convey his true feelings, but he spoke them nonetheless.

"By the gods, I love you. And I love Arthur. He is a brother to me. I cannot ask you to leave him."

Surely he could ask her no such thing; though he would be a liar for admitting he didn't wish she would ask the same of him. A breath later and she spoke aloud the response he already knew would spill from her lips.

"Nor would I accept. My duty is to my people, my country and thus to marry Arthur. But my heart...  
my heart is divided between my duty and my love." Her eyes pleaded with him to understand, but his jealous rage had left his mind cloudy and unsusceptible to the logic of her argument.

"And what of my heart! Guinevere, please, I can bear this torment no longer." He pleaded.

_What have I done? _She understood the pain she had caused him, and thought herself beyond selfish for causing her true love such distress.

"Lancelot, I love you!" She moved around the fire to stand beside him, reaching out her hand to stroke his cheek.

Capturing her hand in his, he stared into her chocolate brown eyes; eyes that reflected the pain they both shared. The feel of her skin softened his heart a fraction, and he addressed her in a hushed tone.

"And I you, my fair Guinevere. Which is why this madness can continue no longer."

She again tried to reach out to him with her other hand, yet he stopped her touch once more from reaching his face.

"Please, don't." He said softly and let her hands fall from his grasp.

He was right of course. She knew sooner or later their affair must end, though she had hoped she would have had this last month of freedom with him. She watched as he turned his back to her and walked away. A single tear fell to the ground, and her breath was stolen from her lungs. She belonged to no man, but never had any intention of being unfaithful to Arthur after they were married. She had let her heart command her for the present, yet she knew not how she would have found the strength to resist in the future. It seemed there was no need to worry herself further; for Lancelot had made it quite clear he no longer wanted her. Waiting outside of the cave, she stared into the depths of the waterfall for hours before returning to the castle. Rushing to her room, she prayed to the gods she did not encounter anyone along the way. The instant she was inside her chamber she felt the warmth of tears flowing freely down her cheeks. She lay on the bed, willing herself to sleep, for now she could only be with her love in her dreams.

TBC


	2. Lancelot's Lament

**A/N: **Well I thought I had the rest of this fic all planned out. But as luck would have it, I was inspired by the most amazing Lancelot/Guinevere music vid, which has caused this chapter and the following ones to evolve in wonderful ways that I had not originally envisioned. I hope you all enjoy it. Feedback is much appreciated!

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**Chapter 2 – Lancelot's Lament**

_Damn this woman. Damn this heart._

Lancelot quickly paced the length of his room lamenting his misfortunes. One night's rest had done nothing to temper his rage or stop his mind from revisiting yesterday's sight in the forest. Walking slowly to the window he stared out and contemplated, not for the first time, running away. Abandoning his duty, his friend, and his love. _Cowards run away. _Lancelot had been called many things in his lifetime, but a coward? Never. He was emotional, to a fault perhaps, intensely passionate, endlessly stubborn, but above all else loyal. _Loyal! Ha! Who would dare call me loyal now? _He mentally berated himself._ In love with my best friend's wife-to-be. _He of course could not stop loving her. She held all sway over his heart, since the moment he had first glimpsed her swollen eyes behind the gates of her prison cell.

The thought of running away was fleeting and swiftly passed from his mind. He would never leave Britain, or Arthur. His duty was to the future king and queen of these lands. Lands not his own. But he stayed not for the land. He stayed for one reason alone, though he masked the reason in the veil of a half-truth, namely his loyalty to Arthur. He knew the real truth, as did she. He stayed for her.

He had saved her from certain death by the hand of Cynric, taking an arrow to the chest which had almost claimed his life. Better he had died himself that day, for this torment shattered his very soul. She haunted him in his dreams and throughout his waking hours. Only death would bring release.

A banging on the door roused him from his musings, and he strode to the entrance to see who his visitor was.

"You coming to dinner or what? We're all waiting for you." Bors lumbered into the room, not waiting for an invitation to enter.

Lancelot sighed, "No Bors, I'm not. I am ill."

Looking his up and down, Bors scoffed, "Really? Well you don't look ill to me boy. Maybe you have the same _illness_ the lady has. She refused to dine with us for the same reason."

"Aye, perhaps I have." Lancelot lowered his eyes to the ground, avoiding Bors's gaze.

Moving himself directly in front of Lancelot, he continued. "You think we're all stupid, don't you Lance? I see how you look at her. How she looks at you."

"You don't know what you are talking about." Snarling, Lancelot raised his eyes to meet Bors's stare.

"The hell I don't! Now get your arse to the hall before Arthur starts to question why both his lady and first knight are missing."

_Arthur. _A look of concern flickered through Lancelot's eyes at the mention of his name, and he bowed his head in shame.

Bors grabbed Lancelot's arm and reassured him. "Arthur suspects nothing. He's blinded by his love for the both of you." Giving him a shake as if to knock some sense into the dark night, he added sternly, "But you best watch yourself Lancelot. And you best not make a fool of him."

Lancelot meekly nodded and silently followed Bors to the hall for supper.

* * *

Lancelot entered the great hall and took his place at the table. Arthur nodded to his friend with a smile and raised his glass. They toasted their fallen comrades, as they did every night before dining. Heads bowed, eyes closed, each knight partook in their own quiet reflection on their fallen brothers. Though they preformed the same ritual nightly, the pain never lessened for any of them. Their table once filled to capacity, now held mostly empty seats. Gone but not forgotten. 

After much food and even more wine, dinner ended on a high note, with the men clamoring to head out to the tavern. Lancelot was about to give his usual nightly excuse for why he would not be joining them, but Bors was having none of that tonight.

"Come on you brooding bastard. Let's go!" Lancelot shot Bors a look of death, which did nothing to stay the man's tongue. "We ain't taking no for an answer this time."

"I will meet you soon my knights. I must check on Guinevere's condition first." Arthur left the jovial troupe, watching as Bors practically dragged Lancelot out the door.

* * *

Guinevere lay in the comfort of her bed, eyes closed, feigning sleep. She heard hushed voices in her receiving room, and on silent tip toes moved across the cool stone floor, pressing her ear to the door to better hear who was speaking. 

"The lady is sleeping sir." She heard her nursemaid addressing someone.

"I shan't bother her." It was Arthur's voice. "Does she require the healer?"

"No sir, she insists it is a simple headache and only requires some rest."

"Fine. The men and I will be at the tavern. Please do not hesitate to send someone for me if her condition worsens."

"Aye sir. As you wish."

Guinevere was saddened by the concern she had heard in Arthur voice, but her ruse was necessary. She could not face Lancelot, not yet. Moving quickly back to her bed, she slipped under the covers in the event her nursemaid should decide to come check on her.

Closing her eyelids, the utter silence of the castle set her mind free to wander where it may. Where it always went in her solitude. Lancelot. At times, she was wholly lacking in an explanation to account for the singing in her heart at the mere thought of him. But love could not be simply explained away. It was without rhyme or reason. Her love more than any other, she conceded. She must marry Arthur, it was not a choice. Merlin had told her it was her fate - written in the stars even. She did not begrudge her destiny; it was of utmost importance, to unite her people, to save her land. The rewards surely outweighed the cost of two broken hearts. Or so Merlin had tried to convince her. He was right of course; he was always right. Wasn't he?

She had always known their affair could not last forever. But she had never expected Lancelot to put an end to it, before the necessary time. She could not truly imagine how he must have felt, to have seen her making love to Arthur. The ache in her heart surely outweighed his, for the one who causes their lover pain always bears the greater anguish in the end. She had always feared this affair would cause some complication; she had been so careful not to give Arthur even a hint of her feelings for Lancelot. Though it seemed she had forgotten to worry about somehow hurting Lancelot in the process. She was lost in the heavy emotions of her guilt, her shame, and the utter hopelessness of it all.

There was only one thing she could do now. Guinevere moved to seat herself at the heavy wooden desk. Pulling out a piece of parchment from the drawer, she closed her eyes, trying to fashion in her mind what she would write. Putting ink to paper, the words flowed from her fingertips as she poured her heart out onto the page.

* * *

The music was pounding in his ears, as Lancelot knocked his head back to pour the fifth tankard of ale down his throat. Seated at a table by himself, he was attempting to drown his sorrows, yet failing miserably. The alcohol was dulling his mind, but he could not stop himself from thinking of her. His heart would not let it go, and his mind would continually bombard him with awful images. The sensation it induced in his gut was nauseating, and he took another draught from the mug in hopes of settling his stomach. He felt an arm wrap around his neck and a body plop down beside him on the bench. Gawain laughed and nodded his head to the left. "Look at those two over there". 

Lancelot turned his head in the same direction and spied two young girls sitting at the table across from them.

"Whores," he muttered under his breath.

"Hmm?" Gawain had not heard him.

"Whores!" He said louder this time, and shrugged off Gawain's arm from his shoulder.

Gawain laughed loudly. "Aye, and which one do you want?"

Lancelot looked at him in disgust. Part of him wanted to take Gawain up on the offer and bed one of the two young ladies. He was known to be quite the ladies man, but his actions of late were not in keeping with his reputation. Before Guinevere, he could be found in the tavern almost every night, and go home with a different girl for every night he was there. He could so easily leave with one this very evening; lose himself in another's body. Maybe he could forget about her, maybe she would hear about it and feel the same pain she had caused him. He was in too foul a mood to be good company to anyone, and honestly, his heart was not in it. He didn't want another, he wanted Guinevere. _Damned woman. She has no idea what she has done to me. _

He looked over to Gawain and shook his head, "Not tonight."

"Fine then, more for me." Laughing, Gawain left the table and headed over to the ladies.

_What a fool I am. _ With a heavy sigh, he motioned to the waitress to refill his ale. Lancelot stared into the amber liquid, unconsciously twisting his knife into the table. He thought drink would soothe him; instead it was having quite the opposite effect. His earlier melancholy was slowly fading, and in its place something darker and more primal had taken hold. His temper was legendary, but mixed with the alcohol it became the deadliest of his vices. How could he not be angry? The alcohol would not make it go away, it only made it worse, although the realization came far too late as he quickly finished off the stiff bitter.

Lost in his thoughts, he felt a hand on his back again. He turned his head quickly, dagger in hand, ready to drive away whoever was disturbing him.

"Arthur!" He smiled a sheepish grin at him, "I thought it was Gawain again."

A look of concern passed over Arthur's face and he took a seat next to his friend, "What occupies your thoughts, brother?"

"Nothing Arthur. Everything is fine." He managed a fake smile as he lied through his teeth. "Too much ale is all. How is everything?"

"Life is good Lancelot. We are at peace at last, and soon all of Britain will be united."

"Ah yes, King Arthur will soon unite all the lands."

Arthur smiled quietly at the sound of his new title.

"But a King is not a King, without a Queen by his side. Have you not thought of settling down yourself Lancelot, taking a wife perhaps? I know you are not the marrying kind, I just wish you could be as happy as I."

_Happy. Why can I too not be happy? _ There was only one kind of happiness for Lancelot. The kind of happiness that existed when he was with Guinevere, alone in their secret cave. The kind of happiness that lasted for only a few hours of the day. The kind of happiness that waxed with the moon and waned with the sun. This had been _his _kind of happiness, but was no longer.

Arthur continued, "Guinevere has also expressed much similar concern for your well being."

He had known it was a bad idea to come to the tavern tonight. Why couldn't Bors had just let him be, instead of insisting he accompany them? The other knights were clearly enjoying themselves; Bors was dancing with his lover Vanora and Galahad had joined Gawain in charming the two young ladies from earlier. Lancelot felt suffocated, unable to breathe. Something inside the dark knight snapped, and a heat surged throughout his frame. Slamming his knife into the wood of the table, he turned to face Arthur.

"Has she? Well you tell our fair queen not to worry herself further over me." He spat the words out, garnering a raised eyebrow from Arthur at his outburst.

He noticed an attractive young lady across the room smiling at him. "She should do nicely, do you not agree?" his voice dripping with sarcasm as he pointed the young woman out to Arthur.

He called her over to him, pulling her into his lap as soon as she approached the table. He whispered into her ear causing her to giggle in response. With one final glance at Arthur, he took the girls hand and made a hasty exit from the tavern.

* * *

The couple stumbled into Lancelot's room, pawing at each other like two love sick teenagers. In the darkness they both tripped and tumbled onto the bed. With clumsy fingers he tore at her clothes, his primal desires fueling him. She wasn't anything special, but she was what he needed right at this moment. They quickly shed each other of all their garments and Lancelot lowered himself between her legs and penetrated her swiftly. He didn't care if she was ready or not, he was. 

"Kiss me," she softly moaned.

Ignoring her request, he buried his head in her neck as he pumped harder and faster. Her scent filled his nostrils, musk and liquor and smoke. She smelled of the hundreds of other men she had undoubtedly bedded, and he didn't even care. It seemed forever ago that he was with a woman like this. He was not normally a selfish lover, but this time was different. He needed her body and cared for nothing save his own pleasure.

Biting her lip, she arched her herself into him. Wrapping her legs around his buttocks, she moaned and pushed him deeper into her. He rammed his hard cock into her with such ferocity, he feared the bed would be shattered to splinters. She enjoyed his roughness, moaning his name in his ear, and he realized he couldn't even remember hers, though he was certain she had told him. It didn't matter.

He felt his climax approaching, and not wanting to come inside her, he pulled himself out and spilled his warm seed on her stomach. She seemed to take delight in the sight of his juices covering her. Without uttering a word, he retrieved a towel and handed it to her so she could clean herself. He was mentally and physically spent. He didn't want to talk, he didn't want to think. Lying back down on the bed, he turned his back to her, closed his eyes and fell fast asleep.

* * *

Something was weighing down on his arm when Lancelot awoke. Turning his head he realized the woman was still there in his bed, and his arm was trapped beneath her. With as much grace as he could muster, which wasn't much, he freed himself and moved to edge of his bed. He bowed his pounding skull into his hands, rubbing his thumbs into his temples to soothe the throbbing behind his dark brown eyes. Every muscle in his body ached and his head hurt too much to even think about what had happened last night. He was about to get up and get dressed when he spied a piece of paper poking out from between his feet, half-hidden under the bed. 

He reached down to retrieve the folded piece of parchment, sealed in red at the crease. The pounding in his heart told him who the letter was from. Curiosity got the better of him and forgetting that he was not alone, he opened the letter quickly, without a second thought.

Just as he was reading the first few words, his bed companion awoke and made her presence known by gently running her fingers down his spine. Lancelot bolted from the bed at the touch, the letter still clutched tightly in hand and turned to her. In his lifetime, Lancelot had experienced more morning-afters than he could remember. He had mastered the art of getting the woman to leave quickly, yet always with a smile and a false promise to see them again soon. Not this time.

"Get out." He growled, his eyes turning completely black and filled with repulsion.

She stared at him in shock and disbelief, unable to respond at his outburst. Though she didn't know him well, she knew well of him. She had heard plenty a story from the tavern girls about the knight with the large appetite for female company. The girls had plenty of names for him - Lancelot the Lover, Lecherous Lancelot, and the Salacious Sarmatian. But never had any of the girls described him as he was now before her, menacing, cruel and hateful in all his knightly glory.

"What are you deaf? I said get out!" His voice echoed in the room.

A look of horror crossed her face, and she raised her hand as if to slap him across the face. From the dreadful glare Lancelot gave her, she wisely stayed her hand, but still made no move towards the door. To help encourage her hasty exit, Lancelot retrieved her clothes from the floor and hurled them on the bed. She dressed hastily in silence, not able to even look at him. Fully clothed, she still made no move to leave; rather she seemed content to simply glare at him from across the bed. Just as he was about to shout at her again, she at last decided to address him.

"What kind of a knight covets his brother's wife?"

In a thousand years he would not have expected these words from her, as the shock on his face so evidently indicated.

"You called her name in your sleep."

"Not another word!" Running to the other side of the bed, he grabbed her roughly by the arm, dragged her across the room like a rag doll, and savagely tossed her out the door.

_Enough of this madness!_

Without a second thought, Lancelot quickly dressed. Throwing his cloak over his shoulder, he carefully placed the letter into the inner pocket. Donning his sharp blades on his back, he rushed out of the room and headed directly to the stables hoping to make an unnoticed exit from the castle. Luck was not on his side this morning, and he groaned aloud when he saw Galahad trotting his horse around the stable. _Damn it all to hell. _Completely ignoring the young knight, he moved directly to saddle his horse. He leapt atop the beautiful dark beast and galloped quickly out of the stable, not stopping at Galahad's shouts of questioning. With the sun in his eyes, the dark knight rode, away from the castle, away from Arthur, away from Guinevere, away from everything.

TBC


	3. Run Away

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, this chapter took a bit longer than I was expecting. Hope it was worth the wait! Thank you all for the wonderful comments from Chapter 2.**

* * *

** Chapter 3 – Run Away**

_Every curve of her body molded into his muscular frame. The sweet taste of his breath, the gentle stroking of his hands. Moaning into his neck, his fingers roamed over her soft flesh, sending shock waves along every nerve of her body. This was heaven for her. _

"_Do you know how much I love you?" He whispered into her ear causing a shiver to course the length of her spine._

_Pulling back to stare into his eyes, she answered him with a coy smile on her lips, "No, I do not." _

"_Then let me show you." He gave a devilish grin and he proceeded to ..._

Guinevere was abruptly roused from her slumber by someone being altogether too noisy in her chambers. Opening one sleepy eye, she spied the culprit - her maid, clamorously darting about the room. There was almost nothing worse than being awoken from a pleasant dream before it's conclusion, she thought irritably. Closing her eyes, she turned her back to the infernal woman, wishing to fall asleep once again and continue her delightful dreaming. The slow pulsing between her legs ached for release and she longed for her phantom lover's touch. She had been dreaming of him, as she did every night. Some say that dreams are the pathway to the soul; her soul, her heart and her body ached for Lancelot.

"Milady are you awake?"

_I am now. _

"It is past midday milady. Arthur has come by to check on you twice already. Are you feeling better?"

_I would be if you let me be. _

With a sigh she turned to face the woman, "Yes I am feeling better today, thank you."

Her maid smiled, "I have drawn a bath for you."

Guinevere nodded and left the bed for her bathing room. A nice soak would do her good right about now, she thought as she disrobed and lowered herself into the luxuriously hot water. With the smallest hint of a smile on her lips, she closed her eyes and continued last night's stimulating dream in her mind.

* * *

With a groan, Lancelot submerged his body into the chilling cool depths of the pond. When he had left the castle that morning he had had no destination in mind. He had just needed to run away from everything, to spend time in solitude, and hopefully to find some peace and quiet for once. Letting his horse roam freely, his faithful companion had brought him here - to his and Guinevere's waterfall. _The whole damned world knows. Why not the horse as well?_

It was a blessing in disguise he quickly decided, and after tying his horse to a nearby tree, he stripped off his garments and jumped into the water. He wanted to scrub off the filthy scent of the whore from his body. The water was freezing cold, which was exactly what he needed to temper his anger. Lately he was far too angry far too often, he thought. Experiencing one minor disaster after another; things had been piling up long enough. The past two days, culminating in this morning's events, were the final straw. He hated himself for his actions last night. Taking pleasure in another woman's body, all because of his broken heart. It was disgusting and selfish and foolish. And the sad part was, he was partly glad he had done it – he had wanted to hurt Guinevere as she had hurt him. And that damned whore knew! Enough was enough. A man can only take so much before he snaps.

The crashing of the waterfall muffled the sound of the two approaching men. With a deep breath, Lancelot immersed himself completely, the icy cold liquid tickling his skin. When he returned to the surface, he opened his eyes to the sight of two men turning to run. One carried his swords, the other his clothing. _Bastard thieves! _He berated himself for having been caught off his guard and instantly leapt from the water.

Naked and weaponless, Lancelot sprinted after the two men. His body, which had been freezing only a second earlier, warmed immediately as hot angry blood burned through his veins_. They will pay dearly for their theft, _he inwardly snarled. _The fools_ _have no idea whom they have robbed. They will know soon enough. _

His legs carried him faster than he thought imaginable. His mind was racing just as rapidly – jumbling images of catching the foul thieves, of slowly torturing them, of doling out well-deserved vengeance for their robbery. They had taken his most precious items. His blades had been his unwavering, faithful companions for the past 15 years. They were a part of him, as much as his own hands were. It was a betrayal of a wholly devilish kind to see them in the hands of anyone else, and he felt even more naked without them on his back. But it wasn't only the image of his swords that entered his mind, but his cloak as well. Or rather what was nestled deep inside it's pocket. He suppressed the urge to scream and rapidly closed the gap between him and his nemeses.

With a loud moan, the one carrying Lancelot's weapons stumbled, plummeting face-first into the dirt. His companion stopped when he heard the cry, and turned to aid his fallen comrade. Lancelot's pace did not falter and in an instant he was upon them. The one on the ground lunged for the single blade that had fallen within his grasp. Quick as lightening, Lancelot picked up a thick branch of dead wood, thrashing it with all his might. The sickening sound of the man's skull cracking reverberated throughout the forest, and the branch shattered into a thousand splinters at the contact. The other thief stood frozen in horror, until his eyes caught Lancelot's vicious stare. With a bolt he was off again, running for his life, with the black knight of death quick in pursuit.

_One down and one to go._ Like a demon possessed, Lancelot reclaimed his stolen blades and gave chase, his vision tainted crimson. He was the predator and savored the hunt. He could taste it. He was running on pure emotion, his adrenaline feeding him, and his primal instincts completely controlling him. Lancelot was an extremely skillful Knight, though he had always thought the word knight to be too fancy a title for what he really was – a trained killer. He and his Sarmatian brothers had been taken from their home for one purpose – to destroy anyone or anything that opposed Rome in anyway. They had taken this innocent young boy and turned him into what he was today. He knew no other life than the one he had lived in the service of Rome. He knew not of mercy, only of death. Better his opponents' deaths than his own.

The remaining thief was not a young man and soon the aching in his lungs from the exertion was overwhelming. Darting quickly behind the shelter of a large oak, he prayed the tree would be an adequate hiding spot from his stalker. He tried to slow his ragged breath and stop the burning in his chest. The woods were strangely hushed. He knew the black knight was still silently hunting him. He continued waiting motionless until he was fairly certain that his foe had passed by his hideout and finally allowed himself to let out the sigh his lungs had been holding in. That's when he felt the cold steel pressed against his skin.

Keeping a single blade against the thief's throat, Lancelot moved from his position behind the tree to face his victim. Crossing his arms, he placed the second blade in it's proper position, his dark eyes never leaving the man's trembling features. This was the one that had taken his garments, his cloak, and the letter. This one would die slowly. This one would know exactly who was exacting their vengeance upon him.

"Are you so ignorant as to not know who you have stolen from?" Despite the heat raging through Lancelot's body, the words were ice cold.

The thief, who had not yet had the courage to look Lancelot in the eye, finally met his gaze. Terror was written on his face, but it was evident he did not know the identity of the man holding the blades against his neck. Not right away at least. Realization slowly entered his eyes.

"You! You are the one that made my Eliza cry."

_Who in damnation is Eliza? _Lancelot's mind was unable to properly process anything due to his frenzied rage. Nevertheless, even in his right mind he would not have been able to put a face to the name.

"She came home this morning crying her eyes out, going on about how that nasty Lancelot had used her and thrown her out."

The knight's mouth formed into a wickedly evil grin. "Ah yes. The whore from last night."

Disgusted by Lancelot's words, the man spat in his face. Not bothering to clean the saliva off his cheek, Lancelot instead increased the pressure of his blades, causing rivulets of dark red to flow freely down the man's neck.

"Now, have you nothing else to say before you die?"

The thief responded only with silence and a cold glare. He was prepared to die, and would not give Lancelot the satisfaction of an answer.

"I'll be sure to tell your daughter how I killed her thief of a father next time I take her to my bed." Lancelot took perverse pleasure in goading his victim.

Now the thief indeed did have more to say, and with what were surely his last few breaths, he addressed his executioner. "Knight. You call yourself a knight? What kind of a knight are you? You are without honor. I may be a thief, and my daughter may be a whore, but at least I have some semblance of honor. Unlike you! In love with your King's wife!"

Lancelot's jaw fused together, quelling the scream rising in his throat, as the razor sharp blades sliced clean through the man's neck. The scene resembled a nightmarish vision of the underworld. There he stood, his naked body stained with the blood and gore of the decapitated man at his feet, his eyes black as night and burning with anger and hatred. If anyone should dare come upon him in this state they would have thought him a demonic-creature come from the very bowels of hell. He would have struck terror into the heart of the devil himself.

Farther away. He still needed to get father away from this insanity.

Bending down to gather his belongings, he threw the cloak over his shoulders. Not wanting to sully his clothes with blood, he left this godforsaken part of the woods to return to the waterfall and wash up.

* * *

Guinevere was sick of puttering about. She was not one to sit idly by, doing nothing all day. But that was exactly how she had passed yesterday and today – moping about her chamber, feeling sorry for herself. Avoiding Lancelot would accomplish nothing, she chided herself. In all honesty, she very much wanted to see him. She dearly missed his handsome face and the way his dark eyes sparkled like stars whenever he looked upon her. Even if they could be together no longer, he was still dearest in her heart and she delighted in being merely in his presence. Whenever she was near to him, her heart would rejoice at finding it's companion and beat all the faster. 

With that thought in mind, she made the decision to go to dinner tonight in the great hall. Besides her true motive, she did not want to rouse Arthur's suspicions. He was already concerned about her well-being, believing she had been ill these past days. If she stayed in another night, his worry would surely grow to the point of demanding they call for the healer. Then her fake illness would undoubtedly be found out, which would only lead to more questions she was not prepared to answer. How many times could she look at Arthur and lie to him? How deep could her betrayal run? _Everything will be fine after the wedding. _ She had become so adept at lying she was even doing it to herself now. With a final glance at the mirror to ensure her _Queen _face was on, she left her room en route to the great hall, while all the while a flock of butterflies danced in her stomach at the thought of seeing her now former lover.

* * *

It seemed her nervousness was unfounded, for when she arrived the first thing she noticed was Lancelot's empty seat. Arthur and the rest of the knights all stood as she entered and bowed to her. Her eyes were still transfixed upon the vacant chair; not even realizing she had ignored the men, she promptly nodded her head in return. 

She moved to seat herself at Arthur's side, who turned to her with a grin. "Glad to see you are feeling better."

"Yes, thank you." She replied with a false smile in return.

The men continued clamoring on about some business, no one making any mention of Lancelot's apparent absence.

Unable to contain herself any longer, she finally asked, "Where is Lancelot?"

"Galahad saw him leaving this morning in haste," Arthur replied, nodding at the youngest of the knights.

"He just took off on his horse. Never said a word to me, not even a hello. Just completely ignored me like I wasn't even there," Galahad elaborated.

A look of concern passed over Guinevere's face and out of the corner of her eye she noticed Bors regarding her oddly.

Looking pointedly at Arthur, she asked, "Have you not sent anyone out in search of him?"

Laughter ensued at her comment, as the men looked at each other knowingly.

Arthur turned to her with a smile, "One night has not even passed. I am certain he shall return soon - this is not the first time he has left in such a manner."

"Nor will it be the last!" Bors chuckled. Looking over to Gawain he continued, "Remember that time the bastard took off when you beat him in cards. He swore you were cheating! Conceited hot-head couldn't believe he could lose!"

The rest of the knights laughed loudly at the reminiscence.

"He was gone for only one night that time," Gawain recalled. "Another time he left for two days when Tristan bested him in an archery contest. " Gawain nodded to Guinevere, "Don't worry. It's just Lancelot's nature. He will be back after he has cooled down from whatever has set him off this time. He always comes back."

Guinevere had an annoyed look on her face. Lancelot was gone, Arthur would not go look for him, and the knights found the whole situation extremely amusing. She could not continue asking Arthur to go search for his missing knight without stirring even a tiny hint of suspicion, and did not query him further on the topic. A few times throughout the night she caught Bors looking at her with the same curious look he had on his face earlier. She in turn avoided his gaze, and attempted to act more jovially, laughing along with the men as they each told tales of their journeys with Arthur. At the conclusion of dinner she took her leave and hurried back to her chambers.

* * *

By the time Lancelot returned to the waterfall, dusk was settling. He was exhausted and though he wished to ride even farther away, he knew it would be best to leave in the morning. Placing his belongings into the cave, he waded into the frigid pond and stood directly under the rapids. Sheets of freezing water crashed down upon him, along with thoughts of everything else that had happened. Washing away the dirt and blood was easy. Washing away the anger and the pain was an altogether different matter. 

With the waterfall pounding down on him, a hellish scream erupted from deep inside the fierce knight. The dark bellow that had been festering in his gut since he had left the castle that morning. The swelling roar that had been building inside him for far too long. The overwhelming cry he could contain no longer. Lancelot screamed his heart out – all the rage, the pain, the hurt, the blood, the tears, the love, the hate. Every agonizing emotion came gushing out of him, in a sweet and unfettered roaring outpour. He continued screaming until there was nothing left to purge and his throat was afire with red hot flame.

* * *

This was all her fault. The knights thought the whole situation laughable, but they did not know the real reason Lancelot had left. She knew he had been upset after their talk in the cave, but she had not ever thought he would leave because of it. And why did he not leave until today? If he truly had been so distressed over her, why would he not have left yesterday? Something else must have happened. But what exactly she did not know. 

The letter! Had he read the letter and then left because of it? She had only written her heart's truth, and did not believe her words would have ever caused him to flee. Yet she knew Lancelot was entirely unpredictable at best. Perhaps something in the letter had set him off. Either way she was certain that she was the true cause of his disappearance. Though she could not surmise all the details, nor know what exactly he was thinking, or what he had hoped to accomplish by leaving. She feared this was not just some angry one night rant he had embarked on. The stories the men told of his prior disappearances were all fueled by anger due to childish reasons – cards, archery, and petty arguments. This was a wholly different matter. This was a matter of the heart.

But what was she to do? She could not just leave and search for him. She knew not where he had gone. He could be far away at this point. And how would she ever explain it to Arthur if he found out she had gone looking for Lancelot? Also, there was Bors, who had glanced strangely at her all night, almost knowingly. She feared he suspected something.

No. There was nothing she could do at this point, except wait and pray he returned soon. She resigned herself to this fact, and slipped under the covers, hoping the next day would bring Lancelot back to the castle.

* * *

Lancelot entered the small cave having thoroughly exhausted himself. He was numb to the bone; not just from his bath in the frigid water. His baser emotions - anger and rage, had been released into the night air, but the sorrow was too deeply rooted in his heart to be so quickly expelled. He lit a fire in the darkness, and laid himself on the dirt staring into the flickering flames. But not even the intense heat radiating from the fire could warm his chilled body. 

Sleep was threatening to overtake him, and he went to retrieve his cloak to act as a makeshift pillow. Lying back down, he put his hands under his head, and rubbed against something coarse. The letter. He chastised himself for having completely forgotten about it. After the day's events he was thoroughly spent, but his heart begged him to read it's contents. Sitting up, he pulled the letter out of the pocket and began reading.

_My dearest love,_

_I write you this with my heart in my hands. My heart, which I have pledged to you and only you. I pray in reading this you will come to understand all the things I have not told you. All the things I have not shared with anyone, I share now with you. _

_I did not want this – any of this. When I was a girl, my father told me of my fate. My destiny, he called it. I did not believe him. I did not want to believe him. My mother died giving me my life. My father was my only family. He was my whole world. Until you. _

_When I was young he would take me out into the forest at night. Teach me to hunt, to fight, to live. Look at these trees, he would say. They are ours, mine, yours. They belong to us. As our land belongs to us and one day will be ours again. He would point to the stars and say , look - for it is written, for all time. One day we will once again rule that which is ours by right, by birth. And he would look at me with a smile and say – because of you. You, my dearest daughter, will save us. You will give us freedom and you will reclaim our land. _

_I could not understand how I could be so important. How I could save our people? And how am I to do this? I would ask him in disbelief. You must always do what you know is right, he would tell me. You must never be swayed, though your heart may be broken, you must always do what is right. _

_At first I was too young to understand his words. But he would tell them to me over and over again until they were etched into my memory. And only when my eyes fell upon you did I understand the truth of everything he had told me. _

_I loved you from the moment I beheld you. You, who saved me not once but twice. The moment I first saw you, my heart both rejoiced and mourned. For my father's words came rushing out from the back of my mind. I could not stop myself from loving you. Freedom, but at what cost. Only two broken hearts. Only. If it were only one broken heart, I would gladly be the sole bearer of the pain. But to know that your heart breaks along with mine is far too great an agony. _

_I went to my father and begged him to release me from my duty. Your destiny is not in my hands, he said. Your destiny is written in the stars, and lest they fall from the sky, it shall be as it is written. You must do what is right. For our people you must. _

_I knew his words held truth, all the truth in the world. But this did not lessen the ache in my soul. For I shall love you until the ends of my days. The land may be united, my people may be free, but I - I will never be complete without you. _

_Never forget, you alone hold my heart._

A few wet splotches marred the ink. He hadn't even noticed the warm tears that flowed freely down his cheeks and dropped carelessly onto the parchment. The weight of it all was overwhelming. Lancelot felt as broken and shattered as the branch he had wielded earlier. He put out the fire and curled up on the floor of the cave, carefully placing the letter back inside the pocket of his cloak. Closing his eyes, the image of Guinevere remained constant in his mind until sleep finally took him.

* * *

Lancelot awoke the next morning and immediately felt the presence of someone else in the cave with him. Keeping his eyes closed to avoid alerting the intruder of his awareness, Lancelot silently tightened the grip on his blade. He had been sure to place one of his swords directly aside him last night. He would not be repeating the mistake of yesterday again. With catlike reflexes, Lancelot was instantly on his feet, sword held at the ready. Upon recognizing the trespasser, who remained sitting calm and silent on the other side of the cave, Lancelot lowered his blade and slowly shook his head. 

"What do _you_ want?"

* * *

**A/N: Oh the suspense! Who is the intruder? What do they want? Stay tuned when all is revealed in Chapter 4**. 


	4. Farther Still

**A/N: As promised, the intruder is revealed. How many guessed it right? ;)**

* * *

**Chapter 4 – Farther Still**

"What do you want old man?" Lancelot regarded the intruder with a vexed tone.

"Did you succeed in awakening the dead?" Speaking from the shadows, the man remained seated in the corner.

Rolling his eyes at the response, Lancelot retorted with a huff. "I have little patience for your riddles, Merlin. Speak plainly and at once. Why are you here?"

"The screams of Arthur's first knight reached my ears this eve."

"And you found it prudent to come to me? Why?"

Merlin finally stood and promptly exited the cave, nodding for Lancelot to follow him. Lancelot's patience was already wearing extremely thin, and grabbing the rest of his belongings, he followed Merlin outside.

"Is it not a beautiful sight to behold?" Merlin asked, pointing to the surrounding green. The sun was not yet full in the sky, and the air still held the remnants of last night's chill.

"This? You come to me to point out the damned trees?" If Merlin's goal was to annoy Lancelot, he was exceedingly proficient in accomplishing the task.

Merlin laughed at the dark knight's growing irritation. Lancelot promptly decided that he had heard quite enough of the old man's ramblings, and moved to prepare his horse for the journey. Merlin regarded him silently, observing as Lancelot led the beautiful animal to the pond to drink. When the horse had had it's fill of water, it's master mounted, ready to ride off.

"She will not waiver. And neither will you." Merlin spoke pointedly at him.

"Do not presume to tell me what I will or will not do. You do not command me, as you command your daughter." Lancelot heatedly replied.

"Her fate was decided before she was even born. As was yours." Merlin stated matter of factly.

"I don't believe in fate!" Lancelot shouted, glaring at Merlin's deeply mischievous eyes. The Woad was unreadable most of the time and mostly incomprehensible the rest of the time. One required severe patience when speaking with the man; and patience was the one thing Lancelot was fully lacking this morning.

Merlin smiled at his outburst. "Neither did she. When the sun sets, does the moon not reign over land and sky? The stars are merely hidden during the daylight, not missing."

Lancelot let out a deep sigh, "I have had enough of trying to discern your true speech Merlin."

And with that Lancelot prompted his horse to canter, leaving Merlin standing alone with a bemused grin painted on his face.

_He will understand soon enough, _Merlin thought to himself. _One cannot escape fate, not even on the back of the swiftest of horses._

* * *

_Not today!_

Guinevere's mind was groggy and ill-tempered from lack of sleep. Her anxiety over Lancelot's disappearance had led to a disastrous evening of nightmares and continual wakings in a cold sweat. She had not the patience to entertain anyone, let alone deal with dress fabrics and fittings, which was what lay in store for her this very afternoon. She would just have to grin and bear it, she thought. The wedding was fast approaching, and with less than one month to prepare, the dress fitting was only one item on the long list of preparations.

Guinevere had never fantasized of her wedding day, as so many young girls were fond of doing. She was born a warrior. Without her mother's presence, her father had raised her in the only way he knew how. She knew of no other life than that of the hunt, the battle, the constant struggle for freedom. Merlin had done his best to prepare her since birth for that which awaited her – a life of survival, of fighting for her land and people, and most importantly, her inescapable destiny.

The rest of the day past by tediously, with one monotonous task after another – deciding on fabrics and cuts, enduring fittings and measurements. It was all so tiresome to her. The whole while Guinevere's mind was elsewhere, and every time she heard shouting outside, she would run to her balcony hoping to see Lancelot riding in through the gates. Yet each time she was greeted with disappointment when it turned out to be only some random clamoring below. Maybe some fresh air would do some good, she thought, but just as she was preparing to leave, a knocking on the door sounded.

_What now? Enough of these infernal wedding plans!_

* * *

Lancelot rode hard all day long. His black steed was battle hardened, just like it's master, and could effortlessly gallop for great distances without rest. Lancelot had easily fled from the castle, but could not as easily elude the heavy thoughts that weighed in his mind._ "What kind of a knight are you?" _The thief's dying words haunted him still. _Indeed, _he acquiesced. _What kind of a knight am I? _He thought himself a disgrace to the very term – to everything it stood for. He was doing the right thing, he tried to convince himself. With him gone now, he could bring no further shame to the castle. Guinevere would be free to marry Arthur. She would not have to look at him ever again; he would not ruin her further with his presence. And he would no longer be betraying his best friend in the world. 

If Merlin insisted that Guinevere's fate was to become Arthur's Queen, then so be it. But Lancelot would not be around to see it. He thought himself a disease, contaminating her; contaminating everything he touched. _No wonder she is marrying Arthur. Why would she ever desire to be with a wretched soul like myself? _ Things would get along just fine with him absent, he decided. He had done nothing but cause trouble of late; they were all better off without him. He was not noble like Arthur; nor innocent like Galahad; nor hopeful like Gawain; nor strong-willed like Bors. He was nothing like any of them. They were all good men, each and everyone. Lancelot had always been the dark sheep, though they had loved him as a brother all the same. _I do not belong_. _I do not deserve their love. I do not deserve Arthur's love. I do not deserve Guinevere._

Lancelot prompted his horse to gallop even faster. The faster and the farther away they rode, the better, he thought.

* * *

Guinevere opened the door to find none other than Arthur, standing across the threshold. 

"Are you occupied? May I enter?"

"Of course. Please." She replied, stepping aside to allow him entrance.

"How were the day's preparations? Tell me everything went well and was to your liking?"

"Yes, everything went very well. The fabrics were splendid, in fact the choices were so many I had trouble deciding on just one."

"I am certain that whichever you chose will be perfect." He reached down and softly stroked her cheek.

_I do not deserver his love_, she ruminated, and lowered her eyes to stare intently at the stone floor.

"What is the matter?" He asked her worriedly.

"Nothing," she replied, returning to gaze into his soulful green eyes. "I am slightly weary."

"From the day's events?" He queried.

"I did not sleep well this night," she explained.

"Something troubles you my queen. Please share your thoughts with me, so that I can do whatever is in my capacity to quell your disquietude."

_I truly do not deserve this man._

She smiled at him, attempting to alleviate his apparent concern. "Do not worry yourself over me, my dear Arthur. My thoughts are occupied with my people and whether I will be an adequate Queen sitting by your side."

In all truth, she _was_ thusly concerned. Though the reason Arthur would assume would be her fear in her ability to properly rule over the lands; to do her utmost diligence for her people. Which of course was only a tiny fraction of the actual truth. Guinevere could not tell Arthur that last night's lack of sleep had been caused by her worrying over Lancelot – not just his sudden disappearance, but everything else that had occurred in the past few days. She was ashamed, though she marveled in the fact that she mainly felt so only when in the company of Arthur. And yet despite her shame, Guinevere could not stop herself from feeling her feelings, from loving her lover, from betraying her betrothed.

"Fear not, my fair Guinevere. For you shall be the greatest Queen these lands have ever known. Of this I am without doubt." He said, pulling her into a sweet and loving embrace.

"Rest now and do not trouble yourself further with these thoughts." Arthur gently brushed his lips on her forehead before leaving her chambers.

* * *

Lancelot arrived at the small town just as the sun was settling behind the trees. The village was wholly unextrordinary, resembling the thousand others that littered the island of Britain. 

"Lancelot!" A young dark haired boy of about 8 years of age came running as Lancelot dismounted from his horse.

He regarded the boy curiously, "Hello. Do I know you?"

"You are Lancelot, one of Arthur's knights from the great wall. You killed Cynric in the battle! My name is Bedivere." The boy was smiling from ear to ear at having come upon the fortune of standing so close to one of Arthur's famous knights.

"Nice to meet you Bedivere." Lancelot replied, turning to go about his business. He was weary from his arduous journey and both he and his horse were in great need of food and rest.

The boy followed him, speaking with much enthusiasm, "My father told me all about the battle, and how you and the other knights defeated the Saxons. How you helped us save our land. When I grow up I want to be a knight as well. I want to be one of Arthur's knights. I want to be just like you."

Lancelot turned and spoke sharply to the boy, "No! You do not want to be like me."

The boy frowned at Lancelot's outburst, but did not waiver in shadowing his hero. Like the child he was, the overly harsh words were quickly forgotten and Bedivere was soon cheerful again.

"What's his name?" He asked, pointing to Lancelot's horse.

"_Her_ name is Beornwyn," Lancelot replied, gently stoking the dark mare's flank.

"She's beautiful." The horse whinnied in response, causing both man and boy to chuckle. Lancelot felt badly for having yelled at the boy, and quickly thought of the perfect way to make it up to him.

"Indeed she is. Do you think you could walk her over to the stables for me?"

Bedivere's face lit up with a massive grin as he nodded profusely in affirmation. Lancelot handed the youngster the reins, and headed out in search of the nearest tavern for some much needed food and ale.

* * *

Weary from last night's fitful sleep, Guinevere decided to retire early this evening. Lying in her grand bed, she closed her eyes waiting for much needed sleep to take her. Despite her exhaustion, her mind was unable to properly relax and after more than two hours of tossing and turning, she had had enough. Rest would not come tonight, not while Lancelot's whereabouts were still unknown. Rising from the bed, she quickly dressed and headed down to the stables. 

Slinging her quiver of arrows onto her back, she tightly grabbed her bow and turned to make an unnoticed exit from the castle.

"Where you going?" Guinevere nearly jumped as Bors emerged from the shadows.

"Out for a walk," she replied defiantly.

"What's the bow for?" He asked, nodding at what was held in her hand.

"I may do a little hunting," she replied. It was not exactly a lie. She knew not what would await her whilst searching for her missing lover.

"A little dark to be hunting, don't you think?" He retorted.

Guinevere responded only with a silent stare. When the other knights addressed her, they always did so with great deference, treating her as if she held the title of Queen already. But not Bors. Surely he respected her greatly; however, he was never afraid to speak his true mind. Normally she regarded him quite highly for his apparent inability to hold his tongue. She could always count on him to speak the plain truth. But this evening, Guinevere wholly lacked any desire to hear his frank and forthright speech.

"You're going to look for him aren't you?" Bors stared at her, waiting for an answer.

Instead of replying, Guinevere lowered her eyes, suddenly finding the dirt exceedingly interesting. She would not lie to him, she would not even dare. Another of Bors's infamous traits was his ability to smell a lie before it was even spoken. She was not so stupid as to test this proficiency.

"You know, you shouldn't go out alone." His previously gruff words softened a bit. "I'll go with you. Don't want anything happening to our future queen."

"I don't need you looking after me," she responded with an icy tone and an even icier glare; her defiant streak quickly rising to the surface. Guinevere needed no man to look after her. She never had and she never would. Priding herself on her self-sufficiency, she took grave offense to anyone who hinted at her lack thereof.

Before Bors could respond, Galahad interrupted the pair by awkwardly stumbling into the stables.

"What's going on? Has Lancelot returned?" The words slurring off his tongue.

"Nothing! Go to bed you drunk!" Bors roughly commanded the young knight.

Galahad took no offense to Bors and laughed loudly. "Well if you ask me, he probably just ran off with that woman."

The words instantly tumbled from Guinevere's lips, "What woman?"

"He's drunk, don't listen to him!" Turning to Galahad, he screamed at the young knight. "Nobody bloody asked you!" Bors ran over and grabbed him by the arm, intending to drag the drunken knight to his room and away from Guinevere before he could cause any more damage.

Pulling Galahad along with one hand, he pointed at Guinevere with the other, "Now don't you go anywhere."

She watched as the two knights left, Galahad protesting all the while that Bors was not his mother and should not treat him thus.

* * *

The first thing Lancelot noticed when he the entered the tavern was the complete and utter silence. Each and every patron had their eyes upon him, watching with bated breath as he moved to seat himself at the bar. He nodded to the elderly bartender who quickly came rushing to take his order of meat and ale. People soon began whispering and Lancelot was growing quite irritated at the reaction he was causing. 

"It's not everyday one of Arthur's knights comes here," the bartender addressed him, sensing the dark knight's frustration.

"That is understandable. But what is not understandable is the reaction one of Arthur's knights provokes in these people." Lancelot replied.

The bartender laughed, "You are a hero Sir Lancelot! You are all heroes. Knights of the great wall. Arthur's knights. How would you expect these common people to react to you? They are in awe."

Lancelot crinkled his brow. _How quickly they have forgotten how just a few months prior I was in the service of Rome - their enslavers._

"I am no hero," he said shaking his head, "Arthur is the only man who deserves that title."

"You fought the Saxons at Badon Hill. You killed Cedric's son. You saved the Queen. You, Sir Lancelot, are as much a hero as King Arthur; perhaps even more so." The barkeep nodded.

Lancelot had indeed done all those incredible things, but he had never once considered himself a hero.

Heroes do not flee at the first sign of trouble, Lancelot thought; as he had run away from the castle yesterday. Heroes do not covet their best friend's lady; as he so desperately loved and desired Guinevere. Heroes do not enjoy the kill, as he had so thoroughly relished the taking of Cynric's life. Indeed, he had never taken more pleasure from killing anyone before, than that fateful day on Badon's Hill. The Saxon had been a split-second away from ending Guinevere's life, when Lancelot had stopped the heavy sword mere inches from striking her.

_As he lay on the battle-field, his lungs desperately panting for what surely were his last few breaths, the woman he had saved knelt down beside him._

"_Guinevere ..."_

"_Shh. Do not speak. Save your strength." She gently stroked his cheek, tears spilling from her grieving brown eyes._

_He had to tell her. He could feel the life draining, his heart slowing. He had to tell her now, before the end, before it was too late._

"_Guinevere, I ..."_

_He lost consciousness before he could finish, and the last two words remained lodged in his throat._

_"I know," she replied, though he could not hear her. "I know."_

The barkeep brought Lancelot his plate and a tall mug, rousing the dark knight from his musings.

"Shall I have a room prepared for you sir?"

Lancelot nodded his approval. It only made sense that he would spend the night here, then tomorrow he could be off again. To where exactly he was not certain, but he loathed the thought of staying in the town for too long. _I will decide tomorrow morning. _For now he was content to simply enjoy his meal, pass the occasional word with the barkeep, and then retire for the evening.

* * *

With Bors and Galahad out of her way, Guinevere slipped silently out of the stables into the cool night air. She made her way to the first place that occurred to her to look for Lancelot – the cave. Galahad's words remained foremost in her thoughts, though her heart refused to believe them. She could not conceive that Lancelot would bed another woman, let alone run off with one. _It is not possible. _Galahad was full of ale, and surely he was only joking. Surely he was. Though she would not take heed of the rumor, the second the words had fallen on her ears, her stomach had instantly turned to ice - ice which had still refused to melt. Forging on, she forced herself to push the thought into the back of her mind and quickened her pace. 

Arriving at the cave, she found recent ashes of a fire and knew Lancelot had been here the previous day. She returned outside and by the light of the full moon searched for and found what were surely his tracks in the dirt. These were her woods. She knew them like the back of her hand. Effortlessly she followed the faint path marked by footprints and littered with fallen leaves. Soon she came upon the first dead soul and her heart quickened anxiously. The trail from there was more scattered and harder to follow now, yet Guinevere persisted until coming upon Lancelot's second victim's decapitated corpse.

She knew Lancelot was a more than capable fighter, and from the state of the two bodies she had found, he clearly had been the victor. However, this did not quell the concern in her heart, and she bent down beside the body looking for any sort of clue as to the happen chances or whereabouts of her missing love. After thoroughly searching the surrounding area, she was unable to pick up any clear signs, and was about to wander farther away when she heard the cries of a voice in the distance.

The faint calling quickly grew louder, until Guinevere could finally discern the words.

"Father! Father!"

A young blonde woman of Guinevere's age came running through the trees, stopping in shock when she caught sight of the corpse.

"Father!" The girl rushed to her father's body sobbing tears of agony.

"I am so sorry. I do not know what has happened." Guinevere heart was saddened for this poor girl, for having found her father in such a state.

"Who could have done this?" She screamed, clutching her father's lifeless body tightly to her chest.

Guinevere did not reply, yet she indeed did know who had done this. Though she could not be fully certain, the proof was quite positive that Lancelot had had an altercation of some sort with this man. An altercation which had ended badly. Badly for the man of course, and now even more so for his daughter.

"I am totally alone now. All I had left was my father," she wept, soaking her father's shirt with the tears that streamed relentlessly from her soft cerulean eyes.

Instinctively Guinevere knelt down and reached out to touch the girl's shoulder in condolence, watching silently as the young lady continued sobbing. Guinevere stayed by her side until the girl's tears were all but spent, and attempted to speak to her again.

"What is your name?" Guinevere asked the fair-haired girl.

"Eliza." She replied, wiping the tears off her flushed cheeks.

"Eliza. That is a pretty name." This garnered a small smile from the girl, who finally looked clearly at the other young woman aside her.

"Guinevere!" In her mourning, Eliza had not taken full notice of the other woman, and finally with tear free eyes she recognized who it was kneeling beside her.

Guinevere smiled in return, "Yes, I am Guinevere."

"You are so lucky, you have no idea." Eliza's blue eyes stared intently into Guinevere's deep brown ones. "You have not one, but two men who love you."

"What are you talking about?" Guinevere asked, shaking her head in confusion.

Eliza looked at her in disbelief. "Do you not know how Lancelot loves you?"

_Who is this girl to know anything of Lancelot and I?_

A bitter laugh erupted from Eliza's throat. "I thought I loved him as well. He used to come to the tavern, and I would pray that he would notice me. Well last night he finally did. And now, I pray that I had never met him."

Though dreading the answer, Guinevere asked anyway. "What do you mean he _noticed_ you?"

Eliza light blue eyes suddenly turned dark. "He took me to his bed."

"You! You are the woman!" Guinevere stood up in a fit of rage, her shaking fists curled into tight balls at her waist.

Eliza rose and regarded her with equal fire in her eyes; the two women staring defiantly at each other. Eliza recognized well the glare in Guinevere's gaze for it mirrored her own.

"I see Lancelot is not the only one harboring hidden feelings," she spat out, causing Guinevere's anger to increase. Eliza continued, regarding her with utter loathing. "You are both disgusting creatures. I would do well to tell Arthur of this!"

"You will stay your tongue!" Guinevere's entire body was aflame with red hot wrath.

Eliza laughed to herself at her brilliant scheme. "Yes, that's it. I will tell Arthur all about this. Make him ask you both. He will see the guilt written so clearly all over your faces!" She paused for an instant, madness flickering in her eyes before continuing. "I will destroy his love as he has destroyed mine."

"I said you will stay your tongue!" Guinevere roared.

"Or what?" Eliza replied haughtily.

The words came hissing off Guinevere's tongue, "I will cut it right out of your mouth!"

Eliza laughed darkly. "You two belong together. You are cruel just like him! You don't deserve the affection of Arthur."

Not bothering to glance again at Guinevere, Eliza turned her back to leave.

Guinevere called after the blonde woman, her voice franticly hostile. "Where are you going?"

Eliza's laughing answer came from over her shoulder. "I already told you. To destroy your love. To tell Arthur."

"No!"

Guinevere's body moved faster than her mind, and before she had even realized, her bow was strung, the arrow was shot and had pierced through the heart of it's target.

The fury raging through Guinevere's slight frame overwhelmed the aching in her heart at having learned the truth of the revolting rumor._ That disgusting pig! Taking that filthy little whore to his bed! _Lancelot had done this just to spite her, of this she was certain. Well, he will have to find pleasure with another wench now, she thought; for this one was dead, by her own hand, and Guinevere herself would never allow Lancelot to touch her own body ever again. Lancelot would do well not to return too swiftly to the castle, lest he was fully prepared to face the wicked wrath of the woman he had so deeply scorned.

* * *

When Guinevere returned to the castle, she found Bors waiting for her in the stables. She was in no mood to converse with him, or with anyone else for that matter. But it seemed there was no getting around it. He was just standing there, looming in the middle of the room, watching her like a hawk. Watching and waiting. She had no idea how long he had been here, waiting for her return. Not that she cared. The icy cold glare her deep brown eyes held would have struck fear into the fiercest of men's hearts. But Bors held his ground and stared right back at her. They played the game for a few agonizingly long minutes, until Bors finally broke the spell. 

"Did you kill anything?" He asked sharply.

Guinevere freezing stare suddenly turned fiery. "Yes."

Without another word, the fierce Woad marched right past him, with a death grip on her bow and her quiver now missing a single arrow, still dangling from her shoulder, and promptly headed back inside the castle.

"These two are gonna be trouble." Bors spoke aloud to the horses, the only other occupants of the stables, shaking his head somberly.

* * *

**A/N: I wanted to give Lancelot's horse a name, but I could not find any evidence of his horse being named in any legends, so I found the Old English name of Beornwyn which means "warrior joy" and I liked the sound of it. **

**Yes I know - in the legends Bedivere is one of the first knights of the Round Table. Well I wanted the boy to be one of the famous knights and I like Bedivere, so there we are!**

**Yes I killed Eliza. It was this thing I had in my sick and twisted head - I had to have Guinevere kill her! When the plot bunny takes hold you gotta go with it ;)**


	5. Homecoming

**A/N: This chapter is short but sweet (well depending on your definition of sweet!)**

* * *

**Chapter 5 – Homecoming**

It was the middle of the night, when Lancelot was awoken by the sounds of a woman screaming for help. Rubbing the sleep from his weary dark eyes, he ran to the window of his small room above the tavern, to see what the commotion was all about.

_Romans! _There were three of them, dressed in the unmistakable bright red and gold armor of the Roman Empire. And they were crowded around one poor young woman, cowering helplessly on the ground. They must be stragglers, Lancelot decided; soldiers who were stationed far north and making their way south, back to their homeland. Their intent was quite evident, as they stood menacingly over the young lady, who cried again for mercy. Lancelot hurriedly dressed in his dark leather armor and quickly ran down the stairs to the foul scene outside.

When he arrived, a small crowd of townspeople had already congregated, and one of the soldiers was already atop the sobbing woman, ripping at her dress. Three against one. The odds were not in Lancelot's favor; he could not be foolhardy and expect to slay all three battle-hardened Roman soldiers without perilously endangering his own life. But there was no way on this earth Lancelot would allow these revolting creatures to rape this poor defenseless woman.

Keeping his blades sheathed, Lancelot confidently sauntered up to the two men who were keeping everyone at bay with their sharp swords drawn.

"Don't come any closer," one of them shouted, "or you will end up like this one." He pointed to a dead body on the ground next to them. The poor soul had undoubtedly tried to aid the woman, and for his courage, had lost his life by the gruesome strike of a Roman broadsword.

Lancelot laughed and continued his stride, "I am just coming to join in the fun."

The two Romans looked at him curiously, and the one on the ground stopped what he was doing and regarded Lancelot for a moment.

"Makes no difference to me," he said with a shrug and a nod to the two other soldiers. This one was obviously the leader of the group, which was why he was first in having his way with the woman.

"Fine," said the soldier who had addressed him previously. "But you'll have to wait your turn. We were here first."

"Of course," Lancelot replied.

And that is when the two Romans made their final and most fatal mistake and turned their backs to watch their commander forcing himself upon the helpless young lady. For when they heard the sharp sing of steel against scabbard, the next instant they were both death on the ground, each with a blade lodged in their back.

The Roman commander did not hear the grunts of his men as they were slain, nor the sounds of their bodies falling to the dirt, for the shrieks of the woman underneath him drowned out all sound. Lancelot reached down, roughly grabbed the man by his neck, and sent him flying off his victim.

"Get up!" He growled at the visibly shaken Roman.

The commander reached for his sword, and pulling up his trousers to cover himself, he stood to face the dark knight.

"But I thought ..." He stuttered in confusion.

"You thought wrong!"

The Roman squinted, looking carefully at Lancelot. "You're one of those Sarmatian bastards aren't you? I always hated the whole disgusting lot of you! Bunch of dogs you are. Good for first-wave infantry."

_Two can play at this game. _

"That's not what your whore of a mother told me." Lancelot smirked as the Roman's face turned scarlet at the insult.

With a roar, the commander lunged at the dark knight, but Lancelot was ready and easily parried the blow. The clash of metal against metal produced a unique shriek that was grating to most ears, but the sharp sound was like music to Lancelot and aided in spurring him on. The Roman and his practiced broadsword were no match for Lancelot's ruthless double bladed attack, and the black knight had soon disarmed his adversary and moved in for his final sweeping strike.

The dirt was imbued crimson with the pooling blood of the three fallen Romans, and Lancelot had once again been the unwilling yet indomitable arbiter of justice. With a final glance to ensure the assaulted young lady was now safe and being tended to by the other women of the town, Lancelot wearily headed back inside, desperately wishing to resume his interrupted slumber.

* * *

Guinevere was thoroughly enjoying taking her aggression out in large chunks on her sparring partner. With a deadly sharp Woad axe in each hand, she hacked and slashed into the wooden dummy, sending splinters raining down onto the dirt floor of the stables. She would have preferred a live partner, but was not in any mood for company. The wooden figure would have to suffice. Guinevere was angry, angrier than she could ever recall being. Each fluid movement of her arms, the thump of the metal striking wood, the raging heat coursing through her body; it felt good. The anger felt good. It was passionate and heated and sensual. She kept up the continual motion, a light sheen of sweat covering her entire body, her short dress flailing about her as she replayed the previous night over and over again in her mind. 

She had been at it for hours - her fingers were numb from her tight grip on the axes, her arms were aching from the harsh blows she relentlessly delivered, her heart was racing from the heated battle that raged within her. She imagined Lancelot's head atop the dummy and with a hissing snarl struck what would be a deadly blow to any human's head; but all she succeeded in doing was firmly lodging one axe into an enormous gash in the timber.

"Glad you didn't ask me to be your sparring partner."

Guinevere turned to see Bors regarding her with a smug grin.

"What do you want?" She asked impatiently, utterly annoyed at his intrusion.

"Me? Nothing. Though Arthur wishes to speak with you," he replied.

With a heavy sigh Guinevere tossed the remaining axe to the ground and stormed off in a huff.

* * *

When Lancelot awoke the next morning, he was not prepared for the greeting that awaited him outside. It seemed the entire village had congregated in the street, and an enormous cheer rose when they caught sight of the dark knight exiting the tavern. 

Men, women and children were crowding around him, announcing him a great hero, a savior for his courageous deed last night. The young lady he had saved had her arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace, praising him for defending her honor. The children were calling him the greatest of Arthur's knights, the best swordsmen in the land. The men were slapping him on the back, proclaiming Sir Lancelot the mightiest of heroes.

It was a strangle feeling for Lancelot – receiving this whole-hearted appreciation and respect that the people of this little town were showering upon him. It was a bit overwhelming, yet Lancelot had to admit that part of him quite enjoyed the feeling. He was not use to such admiration, and could only recall a handful of times in his life when he had ever felt anything remotely similar. Knights did their duty, not expecting nor receiving any thanks in return. Lancelot tried to recall the last time anyone had ever thanked him for anything.

_He had been flitting in and out of consciousness for weeks, and they were still unsure of whether he would survive or not. There was something cool and soothing on his forehead, and he opened his eyes finding himself in a foreign room. Though his brain was still hot with fever, he knew these chambers were not his own. _

"_Lancelot." A soft voice called to him, and he wearily turned his head to see who had spoken. _

"_Guinevere." His throat was parched but he managed to breathe her name. _

_She smiled at him with tears in her red and swollen eyes; she had obviously been crying recently. It was her hand that pressed the cold cloth to his forehead. _

"_Where am I?" He uttered in confusion. _

"_In my chamber," she replied. _

_He tried to sit up but was stopped by a sharp ache in his chest, and he cried out at the pain. _

"_Stay still Lancelot. You are still gravely weak, please don't try to move. Your wound must heal."_

"_How long have I been here?"_

"_It has been almost one moon since the battle, and you have been here ever since."_

_He closed his eyes again and could faintly remember times he has awoken and heard her voice. But he had always thought it was but a dream. Now he knew it was no dream. _

_He turned to gaze at her beauty. Why was she here, caring for him? Why had she been here, tending to him this whole time? His dark brown eyes locked with hers, and he thought he saw something, half-hidden, or half-exposed perhaps. Something beyond words, something beyond thoughts, something only he was meant to understand. _

"_You saved me," was all she managed to say. _

"_Indeed I did, my lady."_

"_Why did you save me?"_

_He wanted to laugh but the pain in his chest prevented him from doing so. _

"_Shouldn't you be saying thank you, and not questioning me?"_

_She laughed at this. He must indeed be feeling better if his sarcastic wit was back. _

"_Thank you, my dearest Lancelot, my protector, my champion," and she reached down and placed the softest of kisses on his lips. _

_He had not been expecting that. "Thank _you_ my fair lady, for if I had known I would receive such a thanks I would have saved you a thousand times by now."_

_She watched as her champion closed his eyes and fell into a peaceful slumber, a smile painted on his lips as bright as her own._

* * *

"You wished to speak with me?" Guinevere stood in the doorway of Arthur's chambers. 

"Yes." He smiled at her, "how is everything?" He motioned for her to enter, and shut the door behind her to ensure their privacy.

"Fine," she replied nonchalantly, gazing about his chambers.

"I've been thinking. Today is the third day Lancelot had been gone. Perhaps you were right?"

Guinevere stopped her shifting and looked at him quizzically.

Arthur continued, "Perhaps I should send the knights out looking for him. What are your thoughts on the matter? I know how concerned you are with his disappearance."

Guinevere could not quell the bitter laugh that rose into her throat. "If he can run off without a word to his _beloved_ knights, then he is no knight himself, and does not deserve the time wasted looking for him."

Arthur raised both eyebrows at Guinevere's unexpected outburst. She was a fiery one, this he knew well; she had a fearsome temper, but Arthur could not fathom as to where this sudden hostile attitude of hers had come from.

He seemed unable to fashion a response, so she continued, "The knights say he ran off with some woman."

Arthur had to laugh at this statement. Never in a hundred years could he believe Lancelot would just up and take off with some woman, "Guinevere, that notion is laughable. Lancelot would never do such a thing."

"And how would _you_ know Arthur!" She had really done it now, but was unable to contain herself.

Arthur decided to ignore her snarl and instead approached the situation logically. "Lancelot has not spoken of any woman to me, let alone hinted that he was thinking of running off with one."

_Gods, his composure is insufferable! Doesn't he ever get angry about anything?_

"So, you have not seen him with any women then? Galahad seemed insistent that he had company just the other night."

_The wench at the tavern the other night? _Arthur thought to himself, _why on earth would Lancelot run off with her?_

"Well he did leave with a young lady from the tavern," he conceded.

"So, you saw him leaving with her then?" Guinevere challenged.

_Why in damnation is she so concerned about who Lancelot brings to his bed?_

"Yes, I saw them leaving together, but I am quite certain he would not have run off with her Guinevere. He seemed upset last I spoke to him, but mentioned no specific reason and I did not push him to tell me."

"Fine. Go after him. Don't go after him. It's really all the same to me. If you will excuse me now." She promptly nodded to him, and rushed out of the room before Arthur could even open his mouth to say another word.

_Women, _Arthur mused to himself, shaking his head.

* * *

"Lancelot! Look!" 

Lancelot turned to find Bedivere and another young boy reenacting the fight from last night. Bedivere played the part of Lancelot and wielded two short blades made of wood, while his companion acted as the Roman with one long wooden broadsword.

"Didn't I tell you, you shouldn't be fighting?" He shook his head at the children.

"But I want to be a knight! Just like you Lancelot." Bedivere insisted.

With a sigh, Lancelot shook his head again, frowning at the child. _Children, so innocent. They have no idea of what being a knight means._

He stood and watched the boys, though he really should have been preparing his horse for the journey. When he was of the same age as Bedivere, Lancelot would engage in similar mock battles with other young Sarmatian boys. But he had all too quickly learned the gruesome reality of battle, at all too young an age. Lancelot could not begrudge Bedivere his youthful enthusiasm, for he had been just like him when he was a boy.

"No, no! You are holding your blades all wrong."

Lancelot walked over to the boys, and proceeded to teach them both the proper grip. Before he had realized, the midday sun was beating down upon them, for he had lost track of time, having spent the entire morning instructing the boys on combat tactics and sword wielding.

"I must go now. You both keep practicing and remember what I taught you." He regarded the youngsters with a smile and made way to retrieve his mare.

"Do you have to return to the castle now Lancelot?" Bedivere asked as Lancelot returned with Beornwyn.

Lancelot had been so selfishly absorbed with his own self-pity of late he realized. He was needed, not here in this town proper, but back at the castle, with Arthur and Guinevere. In his self-loathing of the past days, he had pushed aside his duty for his own egotistical reasons. If anything were to happen to them, to any of them, he would never be able to forgive himself. _What am I doing? _He harshly chided himself. _It _is_ time to return home. _Home. He knew not when he had begun thinking of the castle as his home. But he could deny the truth no longer.

"Yes, Bedivere. I must return to the castle now."

Lancelot mounted his faithful steed, and with a final wink to his new young friend, galloped out of the town and made way for home.

* * *

It took all day, and a better part of the evening, to return to the castle. Lancelot stopped outside the huge wooden gate and gazed upwards at the emerging stars. He wondered if Merlin was right - if all their fates _were_ written up there in the black depths. _Perhaps_, he reflected. Leaning down low, he stroked Beorwyn's flank, and whispered, "well, let us see, shall we," before calling for the guards to open the gate. 


	6. Hell Hath No Fury

**A/N: Sorry this chapter took me so long. This was by far the most difficult chapter to write, and to top it off, real life really got in the way!**

* * *

_Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent  
The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:  
Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,  
And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn'd;  
Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,  
Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd. _

_- William Congreve, The Mourning Bride_

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Hell Hath No Fury**

"Lancelot!"

No sooner had Lancelot entered the gate, when he saw Bors coming to greet him.

"Where the hell have you been?" Despite Bors's usual gruff tone, he was grinning at the sight of Lancelot having returned to the castle safe and sound.

"Just out for a stroll. Did you miss me?" Lancelot smirked.

"Not in the least!" Bors replied laughing.

It felt good to be back home after his time away. _Three days was long enough_, he mused. Still, he felt a shadow of guilt for having left at all, but it could not be helped. This was Lancelot's way of dealing with things; when times became overly stressful, he retreated into solitude. The other knights knew well of this, but Guinevere did not. _Guinevere. _He had missed her dearly over these past days. He hoped she had not been too distraught over his sudden disappearance. _I will explain everything to her, as soon as possible. _

Lancelot felt two eyes boring down on him and looked upward to the north side of the castle. Guinevere was standing on her balcony, staring down at him. He could not stop the smile that formed on his lips at the sight of his love. Her dark brown hair was floating around her shoulders, and her dress was the most glorious shade of green, like grass on a bright summer's morn. His dark eyes locked with hers, and the singing in his heart suddenly stopped. For there was no love lost in her gaze, no smile hidden in her eyes, no rejoicing at his return. Instead her eyes were frozen, like icicles dipping off the leaves on winter's coldest day; a chill that no warmth, no fire could melt.

_She knows. She knows of my transgression. _But hadn't he wanted her to learn of it? He had done nothing to hide the fact; indeed he had been as brash as possible when leaving the tavern with that girl.

And just as quickly as she had appeared, Guinevere vanished, having returned inside, and leaving poor Lancelot staring wantonly at her now empty balcony.

Bors had silently watched the lover's reunion. Though he thought very little of the whole affair, Lancelot was still his friend, his brother in arms.

"Come! Arthur is surely awaiting you most anxiously." Bors called to Lancelot.

Lancelot heeded his friend's words and rode to the stables in silence. After securing Beornwyn, he headed inside to greet Arthur and the other knights.

* * *

"Milady! Milady! Arthur requests your presence at once in the great hall. Sir Lancelot has returned!" 

She would not go. She would not give him the pleasure; he who had claimed to love her, and yet had so vilely defiled that false love.

"Tell Arthur I am very weary and have retired for the evening." Guinevere addressed her maid.

"But milady? I do not understand…" Her maid responded with confusion, for Guinevere was not yet in her bed.

"I said tell him I cannot come!" She most harshly ordered the woman.

Her maid quickly nodded and rushed from the room to follow her lady's orders.

* * *

Lancelot followed Bors through the myriad of corridors that led to the great hall, where Arthur, Galahad and Gawain were awaiting his arrival. 

Arthur smiled brightly at seeing his first knight, while Gawain and Galahad simply shook their heads, laughing as Lancelot strolled into the hall, acting as if he had not been missing for the past three days.

"Glad to see you are back brother," Arthur said warmly.

"What was it this time?" Gawain asked. "Did someone finally manage to best you with a sword?"

Lancelot laughed, for none of the knights had yet been able to defeat him sparring with a sword.

The door opened and Lancelot turned, hoping to see Guinevere coming to greet him; though from the cold stare he had received moments earlier, he knew it was but a fool's hope, a lover's hope. Instead, Guinevere's maid rushed over to Arthur and whispered something in his ear, to which Arthur simply nodded in reply.

Lancelot's heart sank with the realization that she would not even come to the hall. He did not need to hear the words to know that Guinevere had refused to grace them with her presence.

"You must be tired brother. Go and rest, we can talk tomorrow." Arthur advised him.

Lancelot could tell that Arthur very much wished to speak with him, but that would have to wait until the morning.

Lancelot simply nodded and left the men. On his way back to his chambers he passed by Guinevere's room, and paused outside her door for a moment.

His heart begged his hand to knock on the door; but he knew he could not. He had no right. He had ended their affair himself. Besides, she had probably retired for the evening. Lancelot could not help but shake his head at the pathetic excuses his mind was conjuring up. He knew she was not yet asleep, though he could not fault himself for pretending that she was. How could she not want to at least come to the hall? The silent look they had shared outside had said more than any spoken words ever could.

With a heavy sigh, Lancelot returned to his room. This was not exactly the homecoming he had been expecting. _Well, what did you want? For her to come running into your arms? _He pulled Guinevere's letter from the pocket of his cloak, and lay on the bed. He slowly read its contents one last time, before carefully placing the parchment into the very bottom of the steel chest that sat at the foot of his bed.

Her written words seemed merely a joke now, meant to torment him even further. He closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable dreams of her to fill his mind.

* * *

The next morning found Lancelot in the stables, gently brushing Beornwyn, while attempting to fathom how he would approach Guinevere. What was he to say to her? His heart knew what it wished to speak, though he feared his words would betray his true sentiment. 

Suddenly the woman of his affection entered and moved to her own horse in the opposite stall. "Wish me luck"he whispered to his mare, and turned to approach Guinevere. She continued preparing her horse, tossing the saddle onto the white stallion, and made no notice of Lancelot's approaching footsteps. He stopped at the side of the stall, and rested his elbows on the wooden rail, watching her intently.

"Did you miss me?" he asked with his trademark smirk. _Gods that was such a ridiculous thing to say!_

She did not reply, in fact she did not even glance in his direction, and instead walked right past him to retrieve her bow and quiver.

_I guess not, _he silently mused. He would need to try another tactic.

"Where are you going? Would you like some company?"

Maybe she did not want to talk here in the stables, but someplace far away from the castle? Guinevere acted as if he had not uttered a word. She moved right past him once again, and though he longed to reach out and touch her, Lancelot kept his hand by his side. He silently observed as she strapped her quiver and bow onto the pommel of the saddle and promptly swung atop the snow white beast, her gaze never once moving in Lancelot's direction.

Bors chose this most opportune moment to enter the stables, and disrupt the very one-sided conversation poor Lancelot seemed to be having with himself.

"Where you two going?" Bors assumed they were meaning to leave together, for Guinevere had already mounted her horse, and Lancelot had moved to saddle his as well.

"I am going to practice with my bow. Alone." She spoke the last word quite harshly. Though her eyes did not waiver from Bors, her words were obviously not directed at him.

Bors looked over to see Lancelot frowning, his displeasure clearly written all over his face.

"Well, how long will you be gone for?" Bors asked her, more for Lancelot's sake than his own.

Guinevere's lips formed into an overly saccharine smile, "Don't worry. I will be back in time to see you and the men returning with your chosen whores for the evening."

And without another word, Guinevere galloped from the stables, leaving the two men staring wide-eyed after her.

"Always the same one for me, thank you!" Bors humorously shouted in Guinevere's wake.

"Well Lance, you have really done it now, haven't you?" Bors could not help himself from chuckling despite his friend's apparent foul mood.

This conversation had not gone at all how Lancelot had wished. Her words had hit him with such a force, far worse that if she had merely slapped him across the face. He would have actually preferred that she had struck him, at least that would have been some kind of emotional reaction from her, as opposed to the complete and total indifference she had displayed towards him.

"Oh let me be!" Lancelot stormed off back inside the castle, slamming the heavy wooden door behind him.

"Didn't I tell you," Bors regarded the horses. "Trouble those two are."

* * *

Lancelot spent the rest of the day in his chambers, trying to figure out how on earth he would ever get back into Guinevere's good graces. Maybe he should simply give her some time, and wait for her to come to him? No! Lancelot could not just sit idly by, waiting for her anger to subside. It was not in his nature; patience was not one of Lancelot's virtues. He was as passionate and impetuous as she, which is what worried him all the more. _Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned. _The phrase was older than time, though in this moment Lancelot believed the expression had been coined specifically for Guinevere. 

Despite musing the day away, Lancelot was unable to reckon a clear way of dealing with the situation. He would simply need to wait for an opportune moment to present itself; and until then he hoped his heart would be able to contain its overwhelming anguish.

At dinnertime, Lancelot entered the great hall – everyone was there, everyone except Guinevere that is. He took his seat to Arthur's left, where he anxiously awaited Guinevere's arrival.

The men conversed of the norm, joking and poking fun at one another, especially at Lancelot. For he was overdue for the punishment for having gone missing for three days. If anything, the ribbing at least allowed the dark knight to laugh for a moment or two, and masked the uneasiness festering in his gut.

Suddenly the door opened and Guinevere glided into the room, a faint smile painted on her lips. Lancelot felt his heart racing at the sight of her, but he quickly realized her smile was not for him, for her eyes were fixed upon Arthur. She took her seat on Arthur's right side and smiled warmly at her soon to be husband. Lancelot could not stop himself from staring most openly at her, waiting for their eyes to meet; for he knew that she would surely realize his feelings, if she would only look at him. But she would not. She would not even gaze in his direction. Instead Guinevere completely ignored him, as if he were not even present at the table.

If any of the other knights noticed the way she snubbed him, they did not let on. Though it was evident to almost everyone, that something was amiss. The tension in the air was palpable, and Lancelot's dark eyes were soon to bore a hole into the future queen. Finally Bors broke the silence by clearing his throat loudly.

"So Lancelot, care to tell us where you have been these past days?"

"No, I do not care to," he replied, turning to Bors.

"Oh come now! We all want to hear of your adventures Lance," Galahad prompted him.

Lancelot glanced over to Guinevere again, to see if she seemed curious as well. But her expression was so neutral, so apathetic to the whole situation; it seemed she could not care less where he had been.

Lancelot caught Bors glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, and took the hint. For if he continued staring so obviously at her all night, Arthur would be sure to take notice in time.

With a sigh, Lancelot began to recount his adventures in no great detail, for he knew they would not let up in questioning him until he had at least told them something. He made no mention of Merlin, nor of the robbery and thieves he had slain, and he surely gave no hint as to the actual reason he had fled. Instead Lancelot focused entirely on the events that had occurred in the small village. Every so often he would glance at Guinevere from the corner of his eye, but her apathy was unwavering, and her gaze never once moved to her former lover.

Her indifference was insufferable and dinner was not over soon enough for Lancelot's liking. He took a large ceramic jug of wine from the table and rose quickly from his seat, muttering something about retiring early for the evening. As he left, he did not even bother to glance at Guinevere again, for he already knew her expression would be unchanged, and that she would not raise her deep brown eyes to meet his.

* * *

"Talking to the dead?" 

After dinner, Lancelot had gone to the small graveyard near the castle, and had proceeded to drain almost the entire jug of wine. He had thought nobody would bother him here, and the somber mood of the place matched his current disposition perfectly.

"Aye, they don't talk back."

Bors disregarded the obvious hint that Lancelot wished to be left alone, and instead sat down beside his fellow knight.

"That thing empty?" Bors asked, and Lancelot passed him the nearly empty jug, which Bors proceeded to make completely empty with one long draught.

"Cheer up man!" Bors put his arm around his friend.

Lancelot did not reply, and continued gazing into the grass, lost in his thoughts.

Bors nudged Lancelot and nodded his head at all the surrounding graves, "They're all dead. And here we are, alive. We are the lone survivors, and look at you. They died so we could live, and all I've seen you do lately Lancelot is mope about, like you're half-dead yourself. You bring shame to them, to all of them. And because of what? A woman? A woman you know you can never have. She's Arthur's Lancelot. You need to forget about her."

"Oh leave me alone!" He roughly shrugged Bors's arm off his shoulder.

"No, Lancelot. I won't leave you alone. You need some sense knocked into you! I've been quiet for far too long about this." Bors grabbed him by the arm and turned the dark knight to face him.

Lancelot was fuming; he didn't want to talk to Bors about this. He didn't want to talk to anyone about this.

"Don't you think I know? I know she's Arthur's! I know she will never be mine!" Lancelot shouted back everything he already knew, though the truth seemed so much the more undeniable when he actually said it aloud.

"Then forget about her! You are wasting all this time, sulking and running off for days. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Lancelot screamed, "I can't forget about her! I ..." and he felt stinging in the back of his eyes. He bit back the tears that were threatening to spill and hung his dark head low into his chest.

"I know. I know you love her," Bors said sympathetically.

They sat silently for a few moments, until Lancelot regained his composure.

"She won't talk to me. She won't even look at me," he said softly, staring into the grass.

"She went out looking for you, you know? On the second night. I tried to stop her, but she went anyways."

Lancelot regarded Bors with a curious look. He was overjoyed to know that she had gone in search of him; it was such a small comfort to hear of this, but he was unable to dwell on the fact for too long. There still remained a final question that needed answering, if he was to piece together the full puzzle of the events that had occurred during his disappearance.

"Bors, do you know how she found out, about the woman?"

"Well, umm," Bors was clearly stumbling for words.

"Bors," Lancelot asked sternly, "How did she find out?"

"Well, it might have slipped," Bors replied noncommittally.

"What do you mean it might have slipped? Might have slipped from whom?" Lancelot was getting quite angry now.

"The other night, Galahad had too much ale and ..."

"I'll kill him!" Lancelot jumped to his feet, ready to go after the young knight.

"No you won't!" Bors grabbed him by the legs and pulled him back down to the ground.

"Lance, it's your own damn fault anyhow. Besides, I think you wanted her to find out. You made a big enough show of leaving with that wench."

Lancelot sighed. He knew Bors was right. He _had_ wanted Guinevere to find out; it wasn't Galahad's fault he had told her. It _was_ his own damn fault. _How the hell am I going to fix this? _Perhaps he should not be so patient in waiting for the most favorable time to speak with her? For each encounter they had only exacerbated the situation. Though it was quite doubtful that she would listen to anything he would say given her current state of mind. No, he decided, the best option was to simply wait for now, until her fury calmed enough so that they might have a rational discussion. Lancelot was not about to give up just yet.

"What ever happened to that girl? I haven't seen her around the tavern since you left." Bors asked, rousing Lancelot from his musings.

Lancelot shrugged his shoulders. "I have no idea," and he honestly didn't really care where she was. His guilt was overwhelming for having taken the woman to his bed. But Lancelot did not feel any guilt for having slain her father; perhaps he should have, but he did not. The man was a thief, and his sentence was well deserved. He did not tell Bors of her father's fate; he did not feel like retelling that particular day's events.

Lancelot grabbed the jug from the ground, and finding it empty he make a gallant attempt of standing, but immediately found himself back on the ground.

Bors laughed at Lancelot's drunkenness, "Come on now, I'll walk you back," and helped his friend up.

The two knights staggered back into the castle, holding each other up for support. As the two men turned the corridor, Lancelot suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, causing Bors to stumble.

"Guinevere!"

She was standing outside her door, staring at the pair with such a look of disgust on her face.

"Found my whore for the evening," Bors laughed loudly, with a nod towards Lancelot.

Lancelot elbowed him hard in the side for the comment.

Guinevere regarded Bors, her eyes never falling upon her former lover, "You won't even feel him I'm sure, despite the rumors of his _immense prowess," _and promptly headed inside her chambers before either of the men could reply.

Lancelot had a look of horror upon his face and Bors could not stop the laugh that erupted from his throat.

"I better make a note never to cross that woman! She really has it in for you hasn't she?" Bors chuckled.

"Oh go to hell!" Lancelot shouted and made way for his own chambers, suddenly feeling all the more sober than a few moments ago.

* * *

The goddess of fortune was smiling upon him, for the one salvation of the day was that slumber quickly overtook him. Though perhaps it was not such a fortuitous blessing, for his dreams that eve were far worse than the day's events. 

"_Lancelot! What are you doing out of bed?" He found himself in the corridor outside his room, and she was rushing down the hall chiding him. _

"_Guinevere, what ..."_

"_You are still weak from your injury," she began pushing him into his room, "you should not be out of bed."_

"_Guinevere, I have been completely healed now for the past two months." he uttered in confusion as she completed her task of forcing him back into his chambers. _

_She turned to leave, and he called out to her, "Guinevere, where are you going?"_

_She turned back to him with a smile on her face, and motioned for him to come closer. He obliged, and she whispered as if she was telling him her most deepest darkest secret, "I am going out." There was something not right in the way she smiled at him. Her eyes were sparkling, but not in the way they always sparkled for him. The way in which she was regarding him was all wrong. She did not gaze at him as her lover, but merely as a friend. He was completely dumbfounded, for even when they were in the company of others, he could always find her hidden love for him nestled deeply in her dark brown eyes. _

"_Guinevere ..." but before he could utter another word she was gone, having shut the door behind her. _

What in damnation is going on? _He ran from his room and spied her turning the corner of the corridor. He chased after her as she made her way outside the castle. He silently followed, and soon realized where the path she took would lead to. If she heard him pursuing, she gave no indication and continued on her way until reaching her destination - the waterfall. _

_He was so wrapped up in his thoughts, he did not hear the footsteps behind him. And the next instant, felt a burning sharpness in his back. He cried out in pain and tried to turn to face his attacker, but his legs would not move and instead he crumpled to the ground screaming in agony. His assailant was hovering over him, and the dark knight raised his eyes, but all he could see was a black cloak covering a hidden face. Where was Guinevere? Why had not she rushed to his side at his cries of pain? Every nerve of his body was radiating with flames and he could do nothing but lie helplessly on the ground. _

_He heard laughter in the distance, and with all the strength he had left, turned his head in the direction of the voices. His eyes had trouble focusing, but just before the blackness finally overtook him, he saw Guinevere holding Arthur's hand as they made their way into the cave. _

Lancelot eyes jerked open, suddenly waking from his nightmare and he sat up with a bolt. His sheets were tangled around him, and his chest with covered in a thick sheen of cold sweat. His heart was racing in his chest, and he tried to slow his labored breathing. _Only a nightmare, it was only a nightmare_, he attempted to calm his ragged nerves. But what a nightmare indeed! Lancelot instinctively moved his hand around his back, just to ensure there was not a dagger lodged into his flesh. He knew not what was worse; the way Guinevere regarded him as nothing more than a friend, or seeing her and Arthur's clandestine meeting at _their _cave.

A most sickening thought entered his mind, _Gods! Has she brought Arthur to the cave! No, no. She would never do such a thing. _Lancelot ran his hand through his dark curls, _I'm just paranoid, _he told himself._ It was just a nightmare. Guinevere would never bring Arthur to _our_ cave. _Laying his head back on the pillow, Lancelot prayed to whatever god would heed him, for a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Lancelot had not been avoiding Arthur, well not consciously at least. His thoughts had been so wholly occupied with Guinevere, that it had completely slipped his mind that his best friend had wished to speak with him the day before. So when the dark knight heard knocking on his door at midday, he was perhaps more surprised that he should have been to find Arthur standing in the doorway. 

"How is everything Lancelot?" Arthur asked warmly.

"Fine Arthur," he replied with a smile.

"Good." Arthur's tone suddenly turned somber, "I was meaning to speak with you yesterday but did not have the chance to."

Lancelot felt his stomach tighten with dread, for Arthur's gaze suddenly turned deadly serious. _Gods, does he know something?_ Lancelot's throat suddenly became as dry as the desert, and he waited most uneasily for Arthur to continue.

"May I ask what prompted your hasty departure Lancelot?"

Lancelot knew not how to answer. He loathed lying to his best friend, though it seemed of late all he had been doing was deceive the man.

"I just needed some time away, you know how I get," he smiled a sheepish grin.

"Indeed, though it has been quite some time since you have left in such a manner. And in the past, when you returned, we would always laugh together at whatever foolish motivation had prompted you to disappear."

Such was Arthur's way of saying so much with so few words. He spoke just enough to make his thoughts understood, and Lancelot understood quite well what his friend was thinking. It was all so true; this time _was_ very dissimilar, for this time, upon Lancelot's arrival, he did not seek out Arthur, they did not joke together over his imprudence, and he did not tell him his true reason for having left in the first place. But what could Lancelot say – that he had left due to his burning love of Arthur's soon to be bride?

"Guinevere said a very strange thing to me when you were gone."

"What was that Arthur?" his voice betrayed his anxiety and the words came croaking out of Lancelot's throat.

_Dammit man, pull yourself together! _

"She was quite convinced that you had run off with a woman," Arthur let out a small chuckle at the notion. "I explained to her that I found that highly unlikely, and did not seem the sort of thing you would do Lancelot," Arthur turned to look directly at his friend and waited for him to respond.

Arthur's eyes betrayed no emotion, and Lancelot was having great difficulty in reading him, for his friend's tone was as passively neutral as his gaze.

_Is he challenging me? Why would he be challenging me? _

"Arthur, you know I would never do such a thing." He responded with conviction.

"No you would not, would you." What should have been a declaration instead sounded more of a question to Lancelot's ears.

Lancelot felt it, as Arthur surely did as well. It was as if they were both standing on opposing sides of Hadrian's Wall; the strain in their friendship was becoming quite apparent to both men. Yet Lancelot saw no way of repairing this, for as long as he loved Guinevere, he would always be hiding something from his friend. And Lancelot needed no soothsayer to tell him, that he would love this woman until the end of his days. No matter what happened, Guinevere had complete command over his heart, and there was nothing he could do to change this; nor would he ever want to. Surely there were days he wished he had never met her, but such is the lament of an unrequited lover. For he would not trade a single moment they had shared together. And such was his agony, for the sweet moments were soon to end forever; that is, if they had not already ceased altogether.

Lancelot watched as Arthur left, for neither man had anything further to say. That had to have been one of the most awkward conversations Lancelot had ever had. Arthur had almost caught them once before, which had put enough fear into the pair to make a much more concerted effort in concealing their secret affair.

_He was sick of being in bed all the time. He felt like an invalid, and though he was not yet fully healed, he could not stand another second being so confined. Sitting up, he ignored the burning pain in his chest and moved his legs to rest his feet on the floor. He attempted to stand, and cried out from the sharp pain that radiated through his torso. She came running from the bathing room at the sound of his cry. _

"_Lancelot! What are you doing out of bed. You are still weak." She chided him. _

"_Guinevere if I lay in this infernal bed for one moment longer, I will scream."_

_She shook her head, "Fine. Let me help you at least." _

_She reached around his waist to help steady him as he slowly got to his feet. She released her hold to let him stand on his own, but his fatigue caused his knees to buckle and he grabbed her tightly to help steady himself. Her arms instinctively moved around his waist until they were locked in a sweet embrace._

"_Are you alright? Are you in pain?" She soothingly stroked his back as she softly whispered into his ear. _

"_I am fine now," he murmured._

_Her body was flush against his, and her heart was beating against his chest as feverishly as his own. This is wrong, he thought, but why does it feel so right? It was but a moment they were locked in each others arms, though it felt an eternity. _

_She heard the door opening and her fear caused her to release her grasp on Lancelot, who without her support almost fell to the ground. Arthur quickly stopped his friend's descent and steadied him, before he reached the floor. _

"_Are you alright Lancelot?" He worriedly asked. _

"_Why did you not call me, if you needed assistance?" he harshly addressed Guinevere. _

_Guinevere could barely look at Arthur, and felt the blood rushing to her cheeks in shame. _

"_I ..." she stammered. _

"_This is my fault Arthur, I could not bear another second being confined to bed. I asked Guinevere to assist me in standing." Lancelot quickly interjected, saving her from her floundering attempt at a reply. _

_Arthur sighed, "Please, next time call me if you have any need."_

They had been most fortunate then, for if Guinevere had not released her arms in time, neither would have been able to properly explain their affectionate embrace. But everything was so much more complicated now, and Lancelot feared Arthur would soon begin to suspect, that is, if he did not suspect already. Lancelot decided he would let Guinevere be for now; he would not pursue her; he would not attempt to catch her gaze any longer; he would do nothing to cause any questions from Arthur or anyone else. Though his heart would break in doing so, Lancelot knew he had no choice in the matter.

* * *

Days slowly passed into weeks, and Lancelot began to suspect that Guinevere would never speak to him again in her lifetime. A few times he found her in the stables, sparring with the wooden dummy. But as soon as he entered, she would abruptly leave without a word. Despite his promise to himself, he began watching her from afar, but she again caught him staring and soon she could not even be found in the stables. Dinner was the same routine, day in and day out - she smiled warmly at Arthur and completely disregarded Lancelot as if he were an unseen phantom. 

He had never in his life met a woman so stubborn, so fiery - so much like himself. Three weeks past by without her ever uttering a word to him. Three long and dreadful weeks. His heart was broken, beyond repair he feared. He tried his hardest not to think of her, but how could he not think of the woman who owned his heart so completely? How could he not think of the only woman he had ever loved in his life? To not think of her, was to be without air in his lungs, to be without blood in his veins.

And the dreams, oh if he could only stop himself from dreaming he gladly would have. Every night the dreams reminded him of what he had lost, what he would never have again. In his dreams she loved him as before, in his dreams she was his and his alone, in his dreams they were so blissfully happy together. Occasionally the dreams would turn sour, and he would have other terrifying nightmares causing him to wake in a cold sweat. His fear got the best of him on those nights; his fear that she no longer loved him. Though his heart would never let him believe this, it was a logical response to the way in which she was now treating him.

_The torment! _Would he ever be free of her? If there were some spell to cure him of his love, he would gladly drink whatever vile potion was thrust upon him. So many charms to induce love, yet there seemed to be a lack of those to reverse its effects. He was cursed; she would never leave his thoughts, nor his dreams. For she dwelt in his heart, and lest he cut it right out of his chest, she would haunt him forever.

_I suppose it is good practice, _he thought. For after the wedding their affair would have ended all the same, although he had never imagined that their friendship would have ceased as well. But what he wouldn't give for her to simply gaze upon him, to see the love shining in her eyes, to share a quiet smile with her, that special smile that she gave to him alone.

With each day his agony grew until finally the dreaded day was upon them. Tomorrow was the wedding day. _It is too late now, _he thought. _For tomorrow she will be forever lost to me. _Maybe it was better this way, maybe it would make things easier. He was lying to himself of course, and the fact that she would not even look at him caused such an ache in his heart, an ache he feared would never leave him.

Three weeks. How was he to endure a lifetime without her in his arms, if he could not even bear three simple weeks?

_The room was dark, not even a single candle was lit to give any illumination. But the moon was full in the night sky, and gave just enough light to see by. His fever had all but subsided, and though he was still weak, he was making a wonderful recovery. His caretaker had fallen asleep in the chair next to his bed. The way the moon rays lit her face gave her an angelic glow. He lay in the bed, her bed, and watched her sleeping so peacefully, curled up with her head nestled in her shoulder. He wanted to reach out and stroke her cheek, but he dare not wake her. Her eyes slowly opened, as if she had felt his gaze upon her. _

"_I must have fallen asleep," she smiled at him. _

_He did not reply, but simply continued admiring her loveliness. _

_She rose to leave for the chambers she now used as her own, while he occupied hers. _

"_Don't go," he softly called, though he hadn't meant it to come off as such a plea. _

_Without further prompting, she sat on the bed next to him, "The chair does not make a comfortable bed."_

_He did not speak, but moved over just the slightest, and pulled back the corner of the thin sheet covering his body. She understood the invitation, and accepted without hesitation. _

_She lay wrapped in his arms for hours that night, her head resting on his chest, listening to his heart beating with love for her. He stroked her dark hair as they whispered to each other in the darkness. His eyes were threatening to close, but he forced himself to stay awake for as long as he could, savoring the feel of her warm body against his. _

But this night, Lancelot's bed was cold and his arms were empty; and no rest would come for him. For this night, he lay in his bed alone, listening to the pounding sheets of rain that fell from the dark sky. The god of rain could not have chosen a more fitting time to summon his heavenly liquid than on this very eve, thought Lancelot.

Slipping out of the castle, Lancelot welcomed the cool drops that showered him. He walked slowly despite the heavy downpour. Soon his dark curls were plastered to his forehead, his grey cloak was now black and quite heavy from the harsh rainfall, and each step sloshed thick mud onto his black leather boots. One could barely see a foot ahead, but Lancelot would have found the way even in blindness, for his heart pushed him along the familiar path, until he arrived at his destination.

He had not been here since his three-day disappearance, but on the eve of tomorrow's fateful day, he wished to be no where else in the world. This place was as close to her as he would ever be now, this place that held countless memories of the many nights they had shared together. Their special, secret place; where she could love him without fear or shame; where all their guilty pleasures could be realized; where their hearts and souls were free to join together in that eternal lover's dance.

As Lancelot skirted around the crashing waterfall, he noticed that the mouth of the cave was illuminated by a fire lit inside. Somebody was here, in _his _cave. Lancelot quickly entered, and his heart almost lept right out of his chest, for there she was, his one and only love, sitting on the ground staring intently into the fire.

* * *

**A/N: Don't shoot! I know I'm driving you all crazy with these cliffhangers! Well at least I say who it is in the cave this time. ;) I hope to have the next chapter up very soon. **


	7. One Last Night

**A/N: Rating applies to this chapter. I'm very sorry it took me so long to update. I lied before; this chapter was the most difficult ever! But I started this story specifically because I wanted to write _this_ chapter. And without further ado...**

* * *

_If I tell you  
Will you listen?  
Will you stay?  
Will you be here forever?  
Never go away?_

_Never thought things would change  
Hold me tight   
Please don't say again  
That you have to go _

_A bitter thought  
I had it all  
But I just let it go  
Hold your silence  
It's so violent  
Since your gone_

_All my thoughts are with you forever  
Until the day we'll be back together  
I will be waiting for you_

* * *

**Chapter 7 – One Last Night**

Guinevere was seated on the floor of the cave, her arms tightly hugging her bent knees against her chest. Her long crimson dress was the same shade as the roaring fire and her raven hair hung in damp curls about her hunched shoulders. The flickering flames danced about her, bringing out the copper hue of her dark locks and tinting her chestnut eyes with a reddish glow. She made no move at his entrance, not even the slightest twitch of her head, and continued staring intently into the fire, as if hypnotized by the orange sparks.

"Guinevere!" Lancelot rushed to kneel by her side and gently touched his fingertips to her arm.

"Don't touch me!" She yelled, shrinking from his caress and quickly turning her back to him.

Though she had shunned him, Lancelot could at least take comfort in the fact that she had not fled entirely from the cave. However this time, he was fully prepared to stop her if she made any move towards the exit. Her silence had been quietly destroying him for too long now. She was here for a reason, and Lancelot fully intended to discover her motive.

Lancelot once again reached out to her, ever so softly placing his hand on her shoulder.

This time Guinevere jumped to her feet before screaming, "I said do not touch me!"

She moved to the opposite side of the cave, keeping the roaring fire between them as a barrier. Her fiery eyes were fixed on the dirt floor and her hands were clenched, shaking ever so slightly.

Lancelot finally rose from the floor of the cave and stood to face her, yet he was mindful enough to keep his distance.

"Please Guinevere. Let me explain." He softly pleaded to her.

Guinevere at last allowed her dark eyes to rise and meet his soulful stare. Though he could barely discern their deep brown shade, for they were narrowed into thin piercing slits, as sharp as his twin blades.

"Explain! And what explanation would you have me hear?"

This was it. The moment he had been silently reflecting on for the past three weeks. Here was his chance to finally speak aloud everything that his aching heart had been holding in; but suddenly Lancelot found himself lost for words. She was right. What explanation could he give her? He could not change what he had done, and any apology that he may utter would be wholly inadequate.

Instead of speaking, Lancelot looked at her. Couldn't she see? Couldn't she see all his feelings written so clearly in his eyes? How sorry he was, how guilty he felt? He held nothing and yet everything back from her - some things could not be explained away with crude words. Lancelot's dark eyes were a direct pathway to his heart; but Guinevere had placed a shield around her, a thick wall of ice that the raging fire would not melt, and he knew that his effusive gaze had no hopes of reaching her.

"Do you know how I came to find out?" She finally asked, breaking the heavy silence between them.

Lancelot sighed, "Yes, Galahad ..."

"Fool!" Guinevere snarled. "Do you think I would so easily heed his drunken words? My heart would not let me believe his tale."

_Her heart. _And finally she speaks of her heart, which he had assumed had shattered into a million frozen shards already.

But now Lancelot was most confused. If she had not believed Galahad's tale, then how had she come to find out? Had Arthur told her? It did not seem the sort of thing he would do. No, he could not believe that Arthur would have told her. But did it really matter how she found out? She knew. And now the question was, could she ever find it in her heart to forgive him?

"Then how?" Lancelot asked. He knew he could not hide from the discussion; this event had been festering inside both of them for so long. And tonight, everything would be finally laid out on the table.

She regarded him oddly now, as if questioning if he truly did want to know how exactly she had learned of his betrayal. Lancelot's eyes did not waiver from hers and she answered him finally in her fiery tone.

"From the whore's own lips. She told me." Guinevere paused, watching as Lancelot took in her words, before delivering the final blow, "Right before I killed her!"

Lancelot's eyes widened in shock, "You killed her?"

Though he knew it was so wrong, Lancelot could not stop the small smile that formed on his lips. For he could understand so well. He would have done exactly the same thing if he had found her with another man. Another man besides Arthur of course. "_So you see Lancelot, we are very much alike, you and I." _Oh how true her words rang in this moment.

Guinevere instead regarded him with utter loathing, "Please! Don't be so full of yourself to think that I killed her out of mere jealousy! For it was not envy that moved my arrow."

"Then why did you kill her, if not out of jealousy?" Lancelot asked, confusion shadowing his eyes.

Guinevere spat through gritted teeth, the rage flowing so freely through her, "I killed her because I had to! I killed her because if I had not, she was going to tell Arthur of us!"

_What have I done?_ The girl had known, she had confronted him with the truth, and he had tossed her out of the room. Her father had known, and Lancelot had killed him for it. And now Guinevere had completed the evil circle by killing the girl herself.

Finally dropping the ice shield, Guinevere allowed all her anger to flow freely from her lips. "How did she know? What did you tell her? How stupid are you Lancelot? Do you want to destroy everything? Do you!"

_What did I tell her?!_

"Are you mad woman? I never told her a thing about us!" Now Lancelot as well felt the heat building inside his gut. How on earth could she ever think that he would have spoken to the whore about them? She was indeed mad with rage to have ever fathomed such a thing.

"Then how in damnation did she know, if you did not tell her?"

He was almost burned by the bolts of fire shooting from her eyes, and Lancelot bowed his head in shame. Ashamed to tell her the truth. Why would he be ashamed? Perhaps because he wanted to protect what little of his heart was left unbroken. Perhaps because he feared to let her know how much he truly ached. Or perhaps because he was afraid she would laugh at him, and shatter him completely.

With a deep breath, Lancelot raised his eyes to meet hers again. They were still hard stone, yet he held but a little hope that these words would soften them, at least in the slightest. "I called your name in my dreams. That, my fair Guinevere, is how she knew of my feelings for you. For even in my dreams I cannot escape you."

He had been wrong - her dark eyes did not soften at all. His words had done nothing to assuage her, in fact she seemed even more enraged now than before.

"Well, if you hadn't taken the little whore to your bed, she would never have known!"

That was it. Her words had relit the fire inside of him again. She seemed to know exactly what to say to stoke his temper and he would not disappoint her.

"Damn you woman!" He screamed at her, but she did not even flinch. "And if you hadn't been revelling in Arthur's body out in the open where anyone could see you, I would not have done what I did!"

Her voice was now laced with haughty sarcasm as her lips formed into a vicious sneer, "Oh! So this is my fault now. Oh yes, of course! I forced you to sleep with the little bitch. All because you saw me making love to the man I am due to marry tomorrow!"

"Yes!" his scream bellowed inside the tiny cavern.

The cave was filled with a deafening silence, as two pairs of deep brown eyes were locked in a heated battle. Guinevere was so angry, that much was obvious from the way she glared at him. She had spoken her piece, as had he, and what had it accomplished? He did not feel any better, any calmer now; instead his blood was boiling under his skin.

Suddenly the cave felt too hot for comfort, and Lancelot ripped his grey cloak from his shoulders and tossed it onto the ground. Her dark eyes followed his movements and their fierce gaze was broken; but the heavy silence continued, until Lancelot could no longer bear it. Shaking his head sadly, he spoke softly to her, his previous rage now extinguished by a sudden weariness.

"Why are you here Guinevere? Tomorrow is your wedding day. And why on the eve before, are you here, away from the castle? Here in this place of all places, _our _place."

His eyes implored hers to meet his, but she continued staring into the corner, as if afraid to capture his gaze.

Lancelot soon found himself on the opposite side of the fire. If she would not look at him of her own free will, he would make her do so. This was not over yet; his heart was unsettled, and his thoughts plagued with endless questions that only she could answer. He reached his hand out to her, in an attempt to raise her chin to face him. But just as before, Guinevere shunned him and abruptly turned her back.

Lancelot was tired of her games. He demanded answers and she would give them to him now, whether she wanted to or not. He roughly grabbed her arm and turned her to face him.

"Dammit Guinevere, look at me! Why are you here?"

The fire Guinevere's eyes held rivalled the intense burning of the sun, and she attempted to rip her arm from his grasp. Gritting his teeth, the dark knight increased his hold on her. There was no way on this earth he would allow her to turn away from him again. Enough was enough.

She could feel each strong finger digging into her arm, burning a hole into the material of her dress; each exhale from his lungs struck her cheek, a warm breath pricking her skin. His eyes were as dark as the night sky and she could barely discern the slender moon of his black pupils. His lips were drawn into a tight line, as sharp and as deadly as a blade. In this moment, she both loved him and hated him, as she both loved and hated herself.

_Don't touch me! _Her mind screamed, railing against him. But her lips would not cooperate and they remained pressed together so tightly it hurt. Her heart was beating faster than she cared for, causing her breath to shoot in ragged spurts from her nostrils. She did not resist at all, as he roughly pushed her body against the stone wall of the cave, his hand never loosening the death grip he firmly held on her arm.

His voice was merely a whisper across her lips, "Tell me why you came here tonight?"

She did not respond. There were no words to properly express the answer he sought. He held his body mere inches from her, their only contact was his hand on her upper arm, and his eyes - piercing into her very soul. He waited for an eternity for her to speak. Realizing her lips would still not part, Lancelot opened his mouth to repeat the same question he had asked her now three times already. And Guinevere finally responded, by instantly silencing him and fiercely crushing her lips against his.

* * *

Suddenly there was lightening coursing through her frame, intense radiating light shining in her eyes – and Guinevere forgot. She forgot her anger, she forgot her pain, her heartache, her rage. She forgot why she hated him; she forgot why she had ignored him for the past weeks, she forgot why she had hurt him. She forgot everything, save the feel of his lips, warmer than sunlight; of his tongue, sweeter than honey; of his breath, purer than rain. 

Guinevere was home, after being having been lost for so long. She wanted him. No - this was not simple want, nor craving desire, nor lustful passion. She needed him - to live, to breathe, to make her heart beat. She would surely die without him.

His lips met and melded with hers with the same want, desire, need. It was spring rain; that warm comfort one feels when the air is clean and the sky is bright, as the cool raindrops fall from the sky. It was not lust, it was so much more. But she craved it with such a ferocity, afraid the drops would suddenly stop falling, that she sucked each one off his lips as water to a woman dying of thirst. He was her oasis in the desert, and the feel of his warmth ensured her this was no mere mirage.

She needed him, as she had never needed anything before in her life. Guinevere wrapped her arms around him, pulling him tight against her. The feel of his warm hard body thrilled her so that she soon found her hands wrestling with the laces of his trousers. She was frantic, as if he would be taken from her without a moments notice.

Lancelot had enough sense about him to realize that on this night, he did not want her in such haste. He wanted to relish and savour each and every inch of her. He sensed her panic and raised his hand to stroke her dark locks, whispering in her ear, "this night is ours."

Pulling back, he stared into her eyes, reading the passion, the desire, the want, the need, written in her dark brown gaze. Lancelot gently took her hand in his and moved to the other side of the cave. As long as they were in physical contact, Guinevere was calm. But the second, he released his hand from hers, she cried out as if in pain.

It was not desperation, it was not agony - it was love and need. He removed his hand from hers and she watched as he laid out first his grey cloak on the floor of the cave, and then her crimson one atop of his, to make a soft blanket. Realizing what he was doing calmed her ragged nerves, and as soon as the makeshift bed was made Guinevere's hand instinctively reached out to touch her lover once again.

Circling her arms around his neck, she pulled his warm body tight against hers, forcing her hot tongue into his mouth. Heaven could never birth such an angel as the one Guinevere held in her arms. They moved to the floor of the cave, laying on the blankets beside the fire.

Lancelot kissed her so slowly, so gently, his hand caressing her cheek with such warmth and love. A love she had tried in vain to suppress these past weeks. She let her own control slip and gave him complete control, for it was he that commanded her heart and soul. Lancelot's lips moved to her neck and her body arched into him. Guinevere began pulling at his shirt, ripping it off his body and freeing his skin so that her fingers could trace every inch of his smooth and rough flesh. Her nails dug into his back, writing her heart's words on his skin.

What was it about him that made her feel this way? She did not know. Her very soul was drawn to him – he was her fated lover, written in the stars before she was even born; her forbidden lover that ignited the fire in her heart. How had she been able to live without him? How would she ever live without him again? Too many questions that only he could answer, though she feared the response, for she knew the truth of everything, whether or not she would ever admit it.

Lancelot pulled her crimson dress over her head and now their naked chests were pressed against each other. She wrapped her legs around him tightly, pushing his buttocks hard into her, feeling his aching arousal pressed up against her warm naked flesh. Their lips were crushed together so tightly that they could not discern where his mouth began and hers ended. And she would have it no other way.

Guinevere raked her sharp fingernails down his back, massaging every tight crevice into submission, soothing every ache, calming every ragged nerve. Her fingertips wielded magic and she scrolled each letter of her spell upon him; and magic she did possess – for she commanded his heart and soul, and he allowed her to. There was no fear, only love.

_I love you. _Was it her mind or his, that screamed the words? Did it matter? She breathed in his breath, that sweet and tangy taste that he possessed. His lips left hers to feast on the soft skin of her chest, before settling to nip at her breasts, taking each hard nipple slowly into his mouth, rolling his tongue around her glorious peaks and sucking as her fingers curled into his dark locks and her hips rose to crash against his.

She felt a barrier blocking her skin from his and realized she had never finished unlacing his trousers. Guinevere immediately set about remedying this, and her fingers quickly shed him of his last remaining garments until finally all she could feel was his bare skin against hers and his warm mouth lavishing her. Lancelot dragged his tongue slowly down her taut stomach, stopping to lick at her belly button, before proceeding to her warm center.

_Ahhh_. Lancelot's cool tongue finally danced around her core, teasingly so. He was surely relishing in drawing out her passion by gently nibbling on her inner thighs, first the right one, then the left, ever so careful not to let his lips touch her most sensitive area. It was torture for her, immense and beautiful torture. She had both hands gripped in his darks curls, but no amount of pressure would force his slow and loving ministrations. He continued bathing her skin with his warm tongue, everywhere on her lower body, except for where her throbbing desire ached to be touched.

Guinevere was exuding such a supreme patience over her intense need; but it was enough that she was here with him now and that his lips were hot against her skin. She didn't care what he did, as long as he did it to her. Finally his mouth passed over her moist center and she was lost in an overwhelming abyss, as he gently stroked his tongue across her slit. His rough beard prickled against her sensitive skin, and she cried out with the glorious sensation that ran through her shaking body.

She forgot to breathe when he slowly pushed one finger deep inside her, stroking her already burning flames. Her hands were tangled in his dark curls, pushing him to fulfill her every want and desire; but he was only teasing her for now, preparing her for what was soon to come.

Leaving his finger to pleasure her, he slowly moved his mouth up her flesh to reach her open waiting mouth. Guinevere eagerly sucked the taste of herself off his lips, moaning loudly as he increased the rhythm of his hand. She wanted him now; she could not wait any longer.

"I need you," she whispered desperately, grabbing his hips to force them on top of her.

Moving his hand to his lips, he sucked her liquid off his fingers, staring at her with those seductive brown eyes.

"I am yours," he breathed.

All she could see was deep brown and all she could feel was his warm hard body pressed into her. He moved his hips to position his manhood against her wet core, his eyes never wavering from her stare as he so achingly slowly entered and buried himself deep inside. They both cried out at the initial contact. It seemed forever ago, but just yesterday, that they were so connected together.

This was what she lived and she died for. What she would have again, what she would never feel with another. She knew the difference. Guinevere had not been a virgin the first time she went to Arthur; she had been with men before, experienced pleasure before. But this, this was nothing of the same. People used the term 'make love' too frivolously. She herself was guilty of it, which was why she could not use that same term for _this_. For there were no words...

Hips crashed and tongues clashed. Each movement pushed him deeper and deeper inside of her, and she squeezed her legs so tightly around his hard body. Her eyes never left his, as their bodies moved in sync with each other, faster, then slower, then faster again. When her lips were not attached to his, they were moaning in utter desire or crying out his name in complete pleasure. Her heart beat feverishly in her chest, swelling her red aching lips that lapped at his in between her heavenly panting.

He played her like an instrument, each movement eliciting the sweetest note to escape from her lips. Where did he get this power over her? It was glorious, the way each thrust of his hips filled her very soul and caused her heart to sing. She was lost, and so blissfully so. She lapped at his neck, savouring the salty sweat that accumulated at the crevice of his throat. Her hands kneaded into his muscular buttocks, pushing him deeper and harder against him.

They loved each other that night as if tomorrow was the end of the world, for there truly was no tomorrow for them. But Guinevere's mind was not on the next day, it was solely focused on the here and now. On him. On them, together and joined as one.

"I love you."

"I love _you_."

She felt it, that overwhelming flood that was threatening to spill and drown her completely. Two pairs of brown eyes, two bodies melded together, two hearts beating in rhythm, two lovers reaching ecstasy at the same time. Her head tilted back and she screamed his name as her body convulsed with waves of pure pleasure. Eyes still closed, she felt his warm lips breathing heavily against hers, drinking her breath as he was gasping for air.

Guinevere brushed his damp curls off his forehead, kissing him softly. She felt like she was floating on warm salty water, calm blue currents pushing and pulling at her body ever afloat atop the tide. She was the calmest and most serene she had ever been, thanks to him.

"I love you," she whispered it this time, staring into those deep brown eyes of his.

He smiled so brightly back at her, "I love you, my fair Guinevere."

He kissed her on the forehead before moving himself to lay beside her and pulled her tight against his chest. She wrapped her arms and legs about his body, relishing in his warmth and nuzzling her head to breath in the salty musk of his neck. She would lay here with him forever if she could. If she could only change the world, the world that mocked and tormented her. The world that cursed her with this heart – to love a man she could never have; to love a man she was fated to never spend her life with; to love a man she had caused so much pain to.

* * *

He felt her body shudder against him, and placing his thumb under her chin, he lifted her head up to find silent tears streaming down her cheeks. 

"I am so sorry. I am so sorry for everything," she cried. Her body was now shaking and her crying had turned to sobbing.

Lancelot's heart ached at the sight of his lover's tears.

"No, Guinevere. Please do not cry." He felt his own eyes stinging, and this time could not hold back the tears.

"I am so sorry for all the pain I have caused you," She managed to utter between sobs.

He held her so tight and stroked her hair, "Guinevere, it is I who must apologize, not you. Never you."

They both shed oceans of tears, for they were both guilty of crushing their lover's heart. Each felt their own overwhelming agony, and each thought themselves the sole sinner and thought nothing of their lover's transgressions.

Lancelot finally managed to stop the wet flow of tears raining from his dark eyes. If this was the last night he was to spend with her, he did not wish to pass the time crying over what could never be. He had to be the strong one, though at times he did wonder who was the strongest of the pair– him or her. They both possessed a most fearsome and respectable strength in their own right, which was one of the many qualities he so admired in her. But more than her strength, he treasured her ability to release her inner self – to show her fear, her heartache, and her tears. Guinevere never cried, not in front of anyone. Not in front of Arthur, not even in front of her father. Guinevere held her emotions in; she always held back the tears until she was alone, or for when she was with him. Lancelot was the only person on this earth who she would cry in front of, the only person to whom she would show her vulnerability.

He pulled her chin up again from his chest to look into her tear stained eyes, and she let him. He knew why she cried, and it was not just for the regret of her behaviour over the past weeks. It was for everything. For tonight was truly their last night together; one last night before the world changed and her fated destiny finally called upon her to fulfill her duty. He stared into her bloodshot swollen eyes and saw the woman he would love forever.

_Run away with me. _How many times had his heart cried to utter these words? In this moment Lancelot's heart and soul tore into a thousand pieces – four simple words, yet they were impossible to say. But what he wouldn't give to say them, to have her agree to them. But he couldn't. Not for the fact that she would never concede, but for the fact that her heart would break in having to deny his request. And for this Lancelot remained silent and held the words in, tearing an even larger hole in his heart.

Guinevere sensed what he was thinking as she gazed into his eyes. "Were I granted but one wish, I would wish that the sun would never rise, and that this night would go on forever."

He wanted to cry again at her words, but enough tears had been spilled this evening. He kissed her softly on the lips and pulled her tightly against him again. He wanted to remember, to imprint the feel of her body against his skin, the texture of her hair against his fingers, the warmth of her breath against his mouth, the softness of her lips against his own. Though he knew, he would never forget.

"Stay with me tonight," he whispered into her ear.

Guinevere knew she should not; she had never before stayed the night. And especially this night, when the risk was even higher; she knew she should return to the castle as soon as possible. But nothing would tear her away from Lancelot's arms this evening.

She lifted her head from his chest to place a soft kiss on his lips, "I would not leave you tonight for anything on this earth."

His smile brightened his entire face and he brushed his lips across her forehead. There were words in his heart, thousands of words, more words than stars in the sky. He could not fathom where to begin, or how he could ever express them all. He pulled her head down to lay gently atop his chest.

"Listen," he whispered. For he knew, she would understand.

Guinevere took his hand that was wrapped around her body and placed it on her own chest.

"Feel," she whispered in return, For she as well knew, he would understand.

And so the two lovers lay, her head on his heart listening, and his hand on her heart, feeling. All the words they could not speak, all the words that would never express their true feelings. But they could listen to each others hearts, and they could feel the beating, for they spoke their secret language, and they would understand.

Neither Lancelot nor Guinevere wished to fall asleep that night, but it seemed the rhythm of their joined hearts lulled them into a sweet and calming slumber. Their last night together and they were blessed with a few hours of sleep wrapped in each others arms. What did they dream of in those hours, you may ask? They did not dream, for no dream could ever be better than the contentment and the love they felt, holding each other close, warmed by the fire, but more so by their intense love for one another. Not caring for what tomorrow would bring, not worrying for what the future held, just living, and breathing, and loving each other. And this is how the lovers spent their last night together.

* * *

When Lancelot awoke the next morning, he was cold. The fire was long extinguished, but this was not the cause of his chill. Guinevere was no longer in his arms to warm him. She had undoubtedly left him, sometime in the early hours of the morning. It was better that way, he knew. There was no way either of them could have said a proper goodbye. A goodbye. What is a goodbye? They were not going away; they would see each other each and every day. Yet everything had changed now. They would never be together again, not as they were last night – no, not ever again. 

Lancelot rose from the floor of the cave and dressed in his dark leather garments. He used all his strength to keep the reality of that day's events pushed into the furthest crevice of his mind. No use thinking about that which he could not change. He left the cave to find the most gorgeous spring day one could ever imagine. The grass was a brilliant green and the sun was so beautifully orange and so warm on his skin. Just as it should be, he thought. Lancelot walked slowly back to the castle, with the sounds of birds chirping happily in his ear; but on this most beautiful of days, Lancelot did not see the bright sun, nor the green grass, not hear the bird's soft melody. Instead the dark knight felt only cold rain, saw only grey clouds, and heard only loud thunder. For on this day, Lancelot did not feel as if he were walking to his best friend's wedding, but to the dank wood and the sharp falling blade of the unforgiving guillotine.

* * *

_If I had told you   
You would have listened  
You had stayed  
You would be here forever  
Never went away  
It would never have been the same   
All our time  
Would have been in vain  
Cause you had to go _

_The sweetest thought  
I had it all  
Cause I did let you go  
All our moments   
Keep me warm  
When you're gone _

_All my thoughts are with you forever  
Until the day we'll be back together  
I will be waiting for you_

_-Bittersweet, Within Temptation_

* * *

**A/N: One more chapter to go!**


End file.
